Masked Men

Masked men move

And in the milling crowd, nothing is visible—

Save colors.

On the highway

Near where I stay,

A ghost from the past arrives

From a time capsule;

(Perhaps from the 1820s?)—

And I arrive, sweating

After the day's work,

In a mask, the color

I and my wife chose it.

And she screams

That a highwayman comes to plunder,

As it used to happen in the yore;

Not knowing what is what now

In this post-analog era,

Of pain and infection