Cowboy, Ninja, Terrorist -
you can play any role you like
in your fashion mask of choice.
The interwebs are flooded with ads,
your favorite band, TV show, cartoon persona
quickly printed on a nylon sling
contoured to enclose your jaw, your mouth,
the all-important nose,
source of all knowledge
of this vine-ripened disease.
 
I hesitate to commemorate the trend,
don’t think of it as fashion,
but a horror show with no finale,
necessary evil, like soap or daylight.
The calendar and my inked-in plans
mocks me from above a desk
I may never see again.
I hover over a laptop,
perform a mockery of my former tasks,
wear a mask myself of despair, confusion,
pause.