I have more questions than answers.
More answers than I understand.
More mysteries than certainties,
and less memory
than the elephant, who,
poor creature,
must remember every sadness
of its life.
What do geniuses know
of people like me?
Of the confused tourist.
The guilelessness of labor.
Of knowing only plain things.
Simple little truths.
A penchant for believing dreams.
That people are what they claim to be.
That books make you wise.
That money is the grace of a person.
Which is how much sense I have.
Teachers throw up their hands.
I could not follow their beautiful phrases,
balance their equations.
Accepting what they said
that there are no stupid questions,
and then call me dumb
for asking why?
Why? Why?
Because I could not add things up.
I wanted to be inside the things
I knew.
I wanted to open doors not there.
Have reason for things
that did not exist.
For all of which they said,
I was slow,
even though the sky
made letters out of stars,
the wind returned my calls,
the rain said, dance with me,
and they laughed
when I told them.
Why?