Saving Face

I brought a mask

from a charity shop

in Richmond;

one of those classy shops

with decent shit.

The mask was softly textured,

yet solid

and firm in its morals

which was clear

when you knocked on the wood

and also in the carvings

of its regal, native, nomad face.

Two moons later

as the sucked smartie,

derived of colour, dissipated

into the blue of morning

my wife found out

about my affair.

It wasn’t the knickers

in the

c

r

e

v

i

c

e

of my back pocket,

still stained from the action

in the back seat of my car.

It wasn’t the condom wrapper,

crisp, clinical and open

as it released the demons

from Pandora’s box.

It wasn’t even the sordid texts

over the period

of a gasping, sweating, lusting year.

It wasn’t any of these things.

No.

That mask was fucking cursed.