Each day brings a new question and one hundred answers.
Why did I ever care about what people thought of me?
What is the recipe for the perfect portion of love?
Perhaps I have lost my mind. Where did I put it?
Marbles lost in childhood actually mattered after all.
Why is my love cake collapsing, folding in on itself?
Why is black the colour of mourning? Why not white?
Is it any less desirable to be in just one place at once?
With credit on my phone they say I can roam abroad.
Will a sick joke bring the world to an end in 2012.
I understand why God plays the banjo and Jesus the harp.
Will a little sense breathe life into these few lines?
Why are there so few primary colours in our lives?
How heavy are two drops of rain between 11 children?
What would you be doing if you weren’t doing this?
By explaining everything we create more questions.
poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2011