Every day,
I ask myself
“Are there any questions?”
way too many to mention
but I will, with intention.
Do I look fat?
Should I eat that?
What should I wear?
Does it make me look thinner?
Should I sleep early?
Or stay up too late?
Will morning be dreary?
Shall I leave that to fate?
What foods should I choose?
Shall I buy me some booze?
Will it make me happy?
Or make me a fatty?
And why, oh why
do my feet suddenly dry?
Why does menopause try
my patience?
Why lose elasticity?
Why night sweats do I mop?
Why does my stomach pop?
Why do I feel shitty?
When will it ever stop?
Why do we hurt?
Do people need to be jerks?
Is life just a farce
with rage, wrecks and cars?
Why does traffic bite?
Why have a yellow, bright?
Or red, is it right?
Why blow through this light?
Will they come home tonight?
Why, oh why?
Does life have to drive
me crazy?
Why can’t I stay dry
even with an umbrella?
– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21
“Are there any questions?”
Credit: The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood
This is a great pleasure, blending Dr Seuss and Prufrock in a way that speaks so accurately to a specific audience. I am in that audience, at “that age,” and dealing with similar questions. Knowing that others share our frustrations helps us laugh at them a bit.
Linda I’m seeing this poem as one of my top 3 now: thanks for relating to my work.