By Myrna Stone

Who first spoke you, word
of ambiguity and whimsy?

You are loathe to commit,
the very soul of supposition

while escaping our tongues.
From you mayhap, mayhem,

the buzz of be and the tonic
of illusion that untethers us

from our own lurid histories
of befuddlement and failure.

And if we are your infatuates,
gullible and fractious, finding

farce and foolery irresistible,
we are likewise your abettors

plucking petals from daisies,
your idlers, dreamers, lovers

who never fail to hear in you,
huckster, your whiff of hope.

Originally published in River Styx