Bowing pleasantly, it never means to be obsequious,
but words will flaunt themselves with flair and fashion,
spelling out new forms of confusion
for the humble question mark.
What?
Impartial, but never as important as a line of lovely letters,
deftly jiggled or dashingly scrawled across the scroll
(but that was an age before)
or the screen
(times new roman has never looked so neat)
it’s always the end of the line for the humble question mark.
Who?
Silent presence,
crook of the bold and the quizzical,
the querulous and the combative,
the angry and the anxious,
the aged and the young, but not the loving.
The lovers never trouble the humble question mark.
Why?
Speech was a gift that grew without roots
and floated on damp breath to warm ears and fertile minds,
but tied to the page it needs sculpting and teasing,
guiding and preening, pacing and breathing
to find true feeling. Is this what gives meaning
to the humble question mark?
Where?
I’m everywhere,
can’t you hear me?
can’t you see me?
can’t you feel me?
cried the humble question mark.
When?
Just ask and I’ll be there.
