Calculations of Being

I wore green on St. Patrick’s Day,
hid like a leprechaun among the clover,
hoping someone would guess I’m not Irish.

When Christmas came I sent out cards,
handmade, unsentimentally religious,
hoping someone would guess I’m an atheist.

I’ve dismissed the sunset summarily,
made acid comments about nature,
hoping someone would guess I’m a poet.

And so it goes. Each mask masterful.
Each gesture calculated to imply,
by sheer weight of insistence, an unreality.

We are, you see, much of one,
faces pasted flesh on bone,
your mask, and mine, dumbly borne,
wearing out the wearer as it’s worn.