Dipped again, dunkly done, by
the inquisitorial malefactor who
demands some Yes or No. . .
Raised again, sputtering, gasping,
blinking against the chill morning air.
“Be ye or be ye not?”
“Not what?”
“Why you know What.”
“What?”
“Insolent Wastrel! Down Again!”
It is warmer fully submerged neath
the icy waters than held hanging
above. The silence a relief from
the unanswerable accusations.
If only it were possible to will one
vast gulp and so to end the Farce.
But some fiendish force, holds any
such action at bay.
poetastrophy 