by Carol Motta

You passed me by on the street,

your Covid mask hanging from one ear, 

tall, briskly abstracted, ignoring my presence

on the empty scene.

We’ve known each other in other, better times,

but clearly this is a new world and somehow

we should try to begin anew. I’d like

you as a friend.

Your long loose hair flutters, but your mouth is pulled tight,

maybe from the mask you’ve let slip in order to

breathe. I inhale your mood as a pot of unspoken 

sorrow. Let me lift the lid.

Your mask falls to the walk, I bend to

retrieve it, your eyes burn black at me.

You seem ashamed to be caught out,

you recoil.

I extend your mask to you, lowering mine in

an offer of recognition. I search your

eyes for some golden flecks of gratitude

but you have drawn down a scrim. 

This is crazy, this rejection.

I climbed a mountain for the view, but the view

refused me, clouded over and left me stranded 

in my meagerness.