Unanswered Question
On other days you bring your steno’s pad
And your half silence, half a girlish smile.
Today you brought a wound you never had
And took dictation standing half a mile.
Yes, wounds to me are quite familiar things
I too have seen too many people die
Jammed in cockpits shorn of youthful wings
Scattered flesh like confetti in the sky.
Yet there are types of wounds the ones that bled
Hung on a cross betwixt a foe and friend;
Or one which from a motorcade that sped
Did snatch a brilliant President to his end.
What wound is yours? Was it a friendly breeze
That kissed your gentle temple in a chase?
Was it the whisper of the naughty trees
That left their “batik” imprint on your face?
I can conjecture, I can only ask,
An answer is a gift one cannot steal
I cannot tear the silence of your mask,
I cannot cure what only time can heal.