We throw each other riddles,
Catch the questions with thought-soft mittens,
Keep our minds sharp as switch-blades,
Our gazes switch
Between each other and the empty blue sky canvas,
Hoping the answers are etched somewhere along its invisible lines
“Two legs,” she says, “and this will confound,”
But I’m already overflowing with questions
Not meant to be answered,
Confounded by the things I wonder.
In my head
There is a space
Furnished with a soft empty bed.
I wonder
If it will ever be occupied.
But that’s not the question she asks,
She asks about two legs—
“Only at rest,” she goes on, “do they touch the ground.”
“Birds,” I reply,
Wondering what it would be like to fly.
I reach out my hand
But cannot touch the sky.
“Wrong,” she smirks,
And tells me wheelbarrow is the answer.
At least, it’s the answer the asker was seeking,
But I’ve got other questions that need asking.
Questions where the answer
Has always been simple:
Has always been
You.
YOU ARE READING
Cityscape
PoetryA collection of poems written in the city. Written for city folk who don't quite belong. And for everyone else who fall in between the cracks of 'here' and 'there.'
