Every child will tell you the big questions
are what is your favorite colour or how
old are you? Poetry still an amuse bouche
and not a tommy gun firing into the dark.
Break false totems. Remember wisdom
sprang from the head of a god. Questions
change with the decades, like how many
blackbirds flew out of that pie? Do ghosts
sleep? Why is there no thirteenth floor?
Will I get the credit, the job, the apartment,
yes or no? What is your sign? Briggs-Myers
type? Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers? Lou
Reed or David Bowie? How many attended
the wedding? The divorce? To tweet or
not to tweet? Should I jiggle beauty’s lock
using only a paper clip? Does this skirt go
with my ennui? This tie with my exhaustion?
Should I be worried I no longer get ID’d
at restaurants? Twenty years on, why keep
making art? Swag or sparks? Is this puppy
show-quality or rescue? How do I love thee?
Does a honeycomb of doubts or assertions
produce a sweeter honey? A vale of soul-
making or a glen of happy sleep-walkers?
Who jinxed me? cries last year’s prom-queen
storming from the gymnasium. Air or water?
ponders the amphibian its whole entire life.
The big questions expand like black holes
and we hovering on their event horizon
rush towards them at the speed of light.
By Chris Banks