A Whiff Of A Stale Mask

Have you ever had a whiff of a stale mask?
There's a piquant weight attached to it,
As if the user's every word and every task
Holds it down just a little while, a little bit.

You can feel the breath of a dying aunt,
A wailing son, a crying mother,
The tears of a distraught confidant
And the grief of a recently bereaved brother.

The day wears the musky mask dry,
The night makes the wearer dread
That the ones they love may somehow lie
Soon among the doyens of the dead.

The shift gets over, the mask gets heavy,
The sullen night fails to bring relief;
The brutal toll the day levies
Lays bare the foundations of belief.

The clock ticks on, each minute a race,
Each foggy breath a stern test;
Trudge on we must, stale mask on face,
For the weary have no time to rest.

Author's Note

In my place of practice, we are asked to re-use each mask 5 times due to difficulty in availability. Each mask tells its own story.

Reviews

[Shafika Fathima]

This piece has captured the essence of the pandemic very well. The decay of the mask tells a lot about the very life we led during those times and the poem has done a wonderful job in reflecting it.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Yes and your poem tells such a true story...there is a staleness in the air, in the heart. Being shut in and distanced from each other is just not human nature.
We love groups, contact with others.
But what is necessary now just has to be done until we can safely
touch one another again...and allow our breath and words the freedom to come out from behind the masks.
a poignant write here.
j.