A flimsy rag across the face,
A little loose and a little out of place,
There, his armour was complete,
And he was all set to walk the street.
Stepping edgily out of the door,
He recalled his tiny list for the store:
Rice and flour, and oil and herbs,
Only the essentials unbarred by curbs.
He soon found himself not alone,
Not in company, yet not on one's own:
Masked beings rushing to and fro,
Grazing him by, unable to stop or slow.
What was it, a metre or was it two,
Were they to be apart only in a queue?
Might someone mind if he did ask,
Every stranger, stranger in their mask.
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