when they ask him what he cares about
he’s not sure how to answer
because there are galaxies that spin freely in their own time
and time that runs in place
and places that contour in untrenched freeways
and ways not so free, stuck in trembles, that run down a boy’s spine when he isn’t sure
how to answer a question
and by jove, there were questions
honest and truly
that he wanted to ask a strange man in tattered clothes
and a young lad rubbing mud from under his nails
and a woman poking a stick under her dress
and the other men who huddled near an ember storm
but the tat of their shirts spoke plenty
and he shouldered away then
just as he does now for what should be easily asked
and easily answered
--he does not feel as clean as he is--
and he does not know where the middle ground is
or why this pause is curling black
or how to say i do not know what i want
and maybe words matter to him because once tied, he begs for a slip of tongue to resolve  
what he could not say with pauses  
and maybe pauses matter because once his words slip too far in between
he caresses every second that allows a reel backwards
and maybe he is backwards
and will never answer the question the way
he feels he should
so when they ask him again what he cares about
he pauses and pleads his brain
before he can say, *i wish to ask the questions
that will tell me i care enough.