Questions

Is there something else
I should do?

Is there someone else inside me
whose shadow I glimpse now and then?
Someone so different
from who I think I am that in fact
it’s a new person or an old one,
and I do not know a thing about them,
someone utterly not what I am?

Is there something else
I should do?

What work is there to do
that is not being done better
by others, work I cannot do
because I would only be in the way
of those doing it?

Is there something else
I should do?

Should I be turning the Work
over to the person inside
who is not me, or to a person
outside who is not me?

Is there something else
I should do?

Will there ever be a poem
from my pen 
that does not include 
a question?  Will there ever be
a day that does not include
the nagging sense of there being
a question I haven’t asked
that I should ask, its answer
notwithstanding;

is there something else
I should do?

Is there a question
I should be asking, one
that I can’t answer ever,
one where
the pursuit of the answer
is all there is?

If anyone thinks this poem
is about writing poetry — should I 
disabuse them of the notion?
Should I strike them or laugh
as I flee from them, or

is there something else
I should do?