I watch them pass me neat
and swiftly,
carried on two stiff bits of sticks
toward various green leathery
destinations—rumpled behind desks,
or else shining, golden and
auspicious somewhere, over
substantially heavy polished counters—
the old man faces. These
supposed geniuses of our race,
whose noses flair, gravely
supposed geniuses of our race,
whose noses flair, gravely
exhaling smoke and fire and iron
across the quaffed silver arches
of their vast incombustible mustaches.
And yet, I cannot resist
giggling a little
to imagine—their children,
or, more likely, their
children's children! Somewhere
warm and safer—perhaps
back at home, if they're
lucky—but with infinitely more convincingly
austere looks upon their faces
than these scowls now parading
past me can muster.
For here, I suddenly feel cocky
and confident,
that no mask
can affect the true look of solemnity,
which isn't still malleable
enough to render
into realistic expression
just how severely
frivolous—is
the whole masquerade.