The Why is in the Balance

Unless, of course, it isn’t.

Someone is always asking
about my “why,”
as if I wake up at first light and
say “This is why I will do this thing today.”

I am occasionally surrounded
by Rotarians (I married one)
many of whom always say
“what is your why?
what is your passion?
what gets you out of bed every day?”

I want to reply:

“Well, my bladder and four hungry dogs
get me out of bed.
The rest is none of your business,
you preening overachievers;
I’m not like you,
if I even knew (which I don’t)
what makes you think
I’d tell you?”

Yet, perhaps, maybe, or then again…
they might just probably have a point.
Why do I write?

For attention?
For money?
For pity?
For people who just don’t care
about an aging white man’s
First World problems?

I don’t have any tribe here,
That has been made abundantly clear.
When I reached out,
I tried too hard
and I won’t say I’m sorry.

We are leaving.
You don’t need us.

It’s “Koyaanisqatsi.”

That’s my fucking “why.”
Do you feel better now?
More enlightened?
Will you sleep better on your
beds of literary privilege?

Or was this the answer
you weren’t expecting
as I bled all over
the wounded pages
you didn’t bother to read?

“Koyaanisqatsi.”

Look it up.

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