MAN ON THE ROAD

I met a man on the road today
who wore a mask. He said he was
here to feed me
words of wisdom:
“My experience,” he said,
“to help you
find myself.”

If that was the case,
then why did he carry the suitcases
of his final possessions,
his tears and broken dreams
sealing the road behind him?
Why did he laugh the clipped laugh
of a man running
from the fire in his mind
that led him to destroy
loves and homes and dreams
like they were pages of a book
he could keep ripping out – 
blood of hearts on his hands –
thinking pages grew back on trees?

I’m not into masks anymore.
They belong in a carnevale,
the bottom of the ocean
or the closets of those
Who misdirect hearts.

I’m taking off my final mask
and leaving it with the man
I met on the road today.
He’ll set fire to it.

News on the trail,
Passed along by a fresh-faced hiker:
A noxious black smoke
Hovered over the road
Long after the flames
Disappeared into plastic ash.
Someone’s spell broke.

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