Tragedy plays masks with me
and stoops at the curb, behind the bus, and anywhere
he can squeeze without being seen
far off. His favorite place
is the space between raw feet
and a pair of high heels,
though he’s good at feigning the eyes
of a couple in love, with their hands
in each other’s back pocket.
He pencils his brow
and draws calm composure round the mouth,
the hardest trick to catch;
how many times has the guise of pride passed me?
Loss shocks, but I dread the end of the game,
when he takes me by the hand through his country.