My mother says, “Be good.”
I ask, “Who should?”
“The asker of that question,” she responds.
“I don’t know the one you speak of.”
“I certainly think he does.”
“Well, I’ll have him then inform me.”
I ask to him, “Who is this man?”
The return is dull and faint
“Well puffed one, he’s asking;
I don’t see much more to state.”
Topsy turvy –
all around me –
my self recants myself.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Is there truly no one else?
Questions can forgo their answer;
but then questions, they are not.
I’ll trade the answer for the question,
that way – it’ll never stop.
The skeptics freedom from responsibility…