Shake Hands

A few years ago,
When walking on an old sidewalk,
I noticed a question mark passing by.
She was walking in the crowd,
People shoving it back and forth.
She held a bottle of water in one hand
And a handkerchief in the other;
She’d sweep the dirty brownish sweat off her forehead,
And curse the biting emission of the ruthless sun.
I remember seeing it in a great hurry,
Extremely late for something.
She was running hastily,
A nervous, anxious look reflected her troubled self
And glared in between the red swollen cheeks,
The sweaty face,
And the begging tired eyes.
She was late.
It was serious.
I only stared.
Suddenly, she started shouting and screaming.
Nobody looked, they were wiser;
They were duller…
They were more tired.
And the question mark went on wailing,
So hopeless, so frightened, so in needs.
At that moment I felt sorry for her;
I started to move in her direction.
Slowly and cautiously I headed towards the poor wretch.
I reached for her scraggy shoulder,
And gently laid my hand on it.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
She turned her glistening face sluggishly
And stared at me.
Her eyes were now radiant,
Sparkling with glee.
She smiled tenderly and put her wrinkled hand on my head.
She combed my hair smoothly,
And she smiled at me.
So gentle, so thankful
She smiled at me.
I was still.
I couldn’t move, I didn’t want to move;
I was her salvation.
Her hand was mild,
Her touch was supple,
Her smile was gleeful.
I closed my eyes
And felt a cool breeze singing in my face.
Just then, the question mark started gouging out my inside.
And calmly penetrated my skin and rested within.

From time to time I used to feel a little pain.
I used to curse this question mark
But it was too late.
It was settled.
The pain I bore, the emptiness I ignored
But after a while, the question mark got a child.
She named him ‘answer’
But called him ‘right’.
Nowadays I cry from the pain,
I scream with agony
And it is driving me insane.
I talked to his mother and she promised he’d behave.
Yet he still wanders around in there,
Laughing with an utmost ecstasy
Because not all kids have such a huge playground,
All for himself, too.
“Right, son, do you want to take it easy?”
“No, Mom, why did he make me
If he knew I was this destructive?”
“You’re right, son, you’re right.”