What is it like
To not be haunted
With big and dangerous questions?
Ambiguous, mysterious, eternal questions.
Don’t they pester you?
Don’ they find you in your car?
At your desk?
In the shower?
Doesn’t your pen
Find itself scribbling doubts
About things taken for granted?
Things hidden in plain sight
How do jerks claim religious conversion
yet remain jerks for decades?
Oh God, am I a judgemental jerk for asking that?
Shouldn’t everyone just see therapists?
Why don’t more pro-lifers adopt orphans?
Why are we consuming our planet?
Does the Trinity dance to music?
and if so
Who gets to choose the track?
Why do I like poetry so much?
What has everyone else done
from 5 till 7 this morning
as I sat writing this
in conversation with the morning sun
who tells me those questions are old?
A POEM FOR THE HAUNTED