Masks

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.