Kyle lay on his stomach,
Waiting for his greasy chicken burger to digest.
It wasn't an ideal position for digestion.
But somehow that's where he ended up.
Under the table, surrounded by chair-legs,
He wrapped himself up in the question that was lying next to him,
Like a carcass.
He was waiting for some scavenger to take them both.
It was late.
Alone in his apartment.
Slow snow heaped in the back yard of his mind,
A cold blanket for comfort.
He lay thinking about how he left the party earlier that night.
He'd jumped the back fence,
Into the dark cobblestone alley with the cats.
He just left.
It all started in the kitchen
It all started in a conversation with Pamela.
She asked him
"So, what do you really want to be doing with your life then?"
He answered the question with a gesture.
He turned, pushed through the back door,
Ran across the back lawn
And threw himself over the tall back fence.
It was a heavy question, a dead beast with glassy eyes.
A deer that had to be dragged up a mountain to save his people.
The question begged action.
So he got out of there.
Kyle walked home that night.
One hour and forty five minutes.
Walking in the wake of his irresponsible spontaneity,
He realised that he was waiting for something.
Hours later he lay on his stomach under the table,
Digesting some greasy fast food.
Lying next to the question, cold and still, stroking its soft fur.
Waiting for someone to come and drag them both up the mountain.