I find it hard to socialize,
shoot the breeze,
discuss scores,
keep track of the weather.
Everybody is an expert,
knows more than I,
don’t have to ask questions
confront enigmas,
wonder at ice ages,
discuss awe.
Why things move and dance,
have edges,
how the world colors the sky,
the connection of streets.
Why Shakespeare doesn’t surprise me,
and I long to kiss the lips
of women painted by Renoir?
So I say as little as possible
and people ask,
Who is he?
Why doesn’t he speak?
What’s up?
And I reply if I dare,
things fall,
and stars can’t hear each other.
A soft voice is louder
than a loud one,
and they back away
as I begin to warm up.
So I keep my peace,
except,
I would like to know
what do they look for
when the light is turned on?
Why do they pray,
and never ask God
where he got all his ideas?
And why did they stop asking questions
when they grew up?
Why must anything work?
And what happens
when you are old,
and no one listens to your song