Masters of Disguise

Richard Hedderman

I’ve heard about them, how

they look like none of us

and all of us. You know who

they are: identities stolen from nuns,

butchers and deceased opera singers,

lurking in the rain-blurred alleyways

by the river, just out taking a stroll

in someone else’s shoes. On Halloween,

the best of them all, the one with the eye-

patch and morning coat, ties

his little black dog to the street

lamp and goes into a store to buy

a cardboard bowler hat, palming

his secret mirror which he carefully hides

in the hand behind his back.