Hard to Fathom
The investigation into my existence,
I heard, was completed recently,
on time yet, hard to fathom,
not that I have seen the results
or know the names of any
of the highly qualified investigators
eminent as they might be.
Nonetheless, this is not a case
of more is less or even less is none.
No, I am not trying to muddle anything
flee in fear of what might be.
I was the one whose existence
was gone over with a fine-tooth comb
not that I have combed my hair lately, just look
disheveled as an art form, undisguised,
that must be noted somewhere.
And no, an emphatic no, you are not my friend,
acquaintance or even a long-lost relative
found hiding in the midst of the investigators.
You are imagined, I acknowledge that,
but the report, all the same, is real as mortality
and I fear my name has been misspelled throughout.
By J. J. Steinfeld
J. J. Steinfeld reads "Hard to Fathom"
Canadian fiction writer, poet, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot's arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published two novels, Our Hero in the Cradle of Confederation (Pottersfield Press) and Word Burials (Crossing Chaos Enigmatic Ink), ten short story collections, including three by Gaspereau Press - Should the Word Hell Be Capitalized?, Anton Chekhov Was Never in Charlottetown, and Would You Hide Me? - and the most recent, A Glass Shard and Memory (Recliner Books), along with two poetry collections, An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press) and Misshapenness (Ekstasis Editions). His short stories and poems have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies internationally, and over forty of his one-act plays and a handful of full-length plays have been performed in Canada and the United States.
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