The Plague Doctor Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

The Venetian mask hides the pimple on my nose.

The last couple of days I wear it
in the middle of my face.

It disguises my true character.

It's one of those white masks that covers the nose
with a very long Toucan-like papier-mâché beak..

Or for the mask savvy I look like a plague doctor.

No, I don't wear it in public, I'm not that extrovert
because adventuresome-ness is more often absent
in my advanced age.

I wear it at home imagining myself on Canaletto
streets cavorting and flirting surrounded by masked
revelers yearning to expose their secret Hannibal
underlying personalities.

I must admit were I at a presidential masked ball
affair I wouldn't hesitate slicing off any orange
head within my reach.

Under a mask we enact our true characters.
Including my pretending being a bard.

I knew I should've been a clown judging by how
I behaved during my art exhibits or during
my engineering profession often designing and
slipping in a quirky action mechanical movement.

In the case of our orange-topped president I'd design
a guillotine and I'd love to see the orange-topped
swine head roll down the scaffold but the weave
basket will do.

Or at best gouge his eyes with my white beak.