Selling the Plague

After it hit, I don't even remember
what the initials meant nor
what it did to people, but
I remember the days
and one in particular.

Coming through Burbank,
passing a newstand, racks filled
with glossy covers reflecting the
scare of the day: SARS.

Time and Newsweek
sat side-by-side:
a blonde on Time,
a brunette on the other; one
stares steadfastly, the other looks
slightly surprised, but both
peer at the crowded airport
from behind white surgical masks.

That's when it hit me: Why
stop here? This is, after all,
the "fear du jour."
Let's continue the trend:

People
could have Halle Barre looking over her
bare shoulder, a mask hugging
high cheekbones;

Cosmopolitan
would show, naturally, an unnaturally
busty blonde wearing hoop earrings,
one hand seductively on her hip.

Teen Vogue
could have Ashanti voguing with a
bare midriff, wearing matching mask
and bustier.

Playboy
might get the latest
bachelorette and put her in
a grey felt tophat and white
shirt, mostly unbuttoned, the
cumberbund as a mask. Then,
of course

Penthouse and Maxim
could up the ante to lesbic models with masks
but no panties.

Forbes
would show
a masked CEO
looking down over bifocals while

Shape
could give us a fit model
in a bikini top, peach, with perhaps
a burnt umber mask.
The possibilities are endless:

a masked Tiger Woods on Golf;

masked and helmetted running backs replacing
the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated,

masked fisherman flycasting
from rivers on
Field and Stream.

This was a publishing dream
of surgical masks so dominant
that even the Journal of the
American Medical Association
might want to get into the act
by showing a surgeon
unmasking the fear and speaking plainly.

I won't hold my breath. I noted
no issue of
Reason.