Her eyes are two hard pebbles

sickly threads clinging to a smile that

has seen too many

times like these.

Let that infectious blister of humanity

flash its resentment, then

resume blankness and complacency

before the disease spreads oily tendrils

into our own hearts

and we are forced to understand

why she wears a mask by day.

Like a clock with the hands snapped off

or an oil portrait, scratched out

what was fundamental is missing from

this comedy.

The sun still shines, and the world slogs on as before

forever only slightly earlier than usual.

The years, tarnished masterpieces

coveted by so many

acid faces.