By Jeremiah K Durick
PROMPT—During Covid-19 ...
Bill brought masks the other day, sat in
his car in the driveway and visited a bit,
thought we’d need masks if we wanted
to get out, sneak out like bandits, hidden
in masks, even security cameras won’t
know us as we wander up and down
the aisles at Hannaford’s looking out for
things that will make our meals a bit
less predictable, memorable in this pile
of days. The person who made the masks,
not Bill, he just brought them, that person
made each one different, as if to set off
the wearer from the person just ahead or
behind them in the staggered lines: mine
is a black and white check, like the flag
at a racetrack waving the winner across
the finishing line, and Donna’s is a flower
print, as if to commemorate the time she
spends in the garden these days. So here
we are masked bandits ready to shop if
we must – no one will know us now, except
for our colors and that slower way we walk
these days trying to make our time away
last.
J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Yard, Black Coffee Review, New Feathers Anthology, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, and Highland Park Poetry.
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