Don’t Ask

If there’s ‘sense’ in it then it avoids me - an 
after-the-event character in remission from 
too many roles badly played; not that you’d 
notice - you’re busy expecting what to see, 
a feast of stereotypes - a sure measure of 
mannerisms oblivious to all inner meaning 
except eagerly displayed pleasure - more 
like sprayed anthems of street cred graffiti

All I can say is - without it life’s worse than 
muddling along bewildered at being alone; 
there’s no denying gladness in being twain 
if only for expressions of guilt shared over 
whose mess it really is - it’s ours of course 
in every filial sense except actual paternity 

Where responsibility rests consumes more 
energy than we’ve to spare, so we battle in 
a gladiatorial arena as bored professionals 
knowing what applause means; security, a 
dignified investment for being good actors 
beset with a paradoxical task 

And yes, don’t ask that question - 

© 8 December 2013, I. D. Carswell