Flachmoths Face Mask
Flackmoth is at the barber’s thumbing
a magazine waiting for his turn, and comes
across an article about death masks.
Intrigued, he feels he should have one
as soon as he gives up the ghost. Smiling
with no little pride, he notes he’d be
the first in his family line to have one
and as a result as the article pointed out
become part of a group of distinguished men –
writers, philosophers, scientists, composers
and poets like Beethoven and Keats,
to name but two. A warm sensation fills
him and a tear runs down his cheek
which he quickly wipes away with
embarrassment, though heady pride.
Of course, thinks Flackmoth with a
touch of humor and irony, it wouldn’t be
the first time he’d be plastered, indeed
it’s happened many times before but on
each of those occasions he was
inebriated as usual though conscious.
The prospect of strangers looking at
his death mask for all time excites him
to a high so intense he feels he might
levitate from his chair, the more so when
he realizes he will never have to wake up
with a hangover and a splitting headache!
Speechless and near delirious, he launches
from the barber’s chair and rushes out
with half a haircut, crosses a busy street
looking neither to the left nor to the right right
and is mowed down by a motorist. Waking up
in a hospital’s ICU he hears the intercom
calling for doctors Michael and Gabriel,
names he cannot help but associate
with angels in Sunday school as a boy,
and with panic concludes the worse, that
he’s dead and in heaven. But that reality
is quickly shattered when he realizes
most of his body is encased in plaster.
And he mutters: “Surely there’s been
a mistake, all I wanted was a face mask!”
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2023
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