Rob Jones reads books with space spiders inside, arachnids nesting in every line. He turns the page without irony space-age nonsense as literacy. His wife looks at him with furrowed brow She looks like Barbara Hershey somehow, She doesn't ask, she lets it lie, but tilts her head and wonders why. Nobody knows why Nobody knows why She just shrugs, space spiders catch flies Nobody knows why In the backyard, a hole in the ground, Unmarked, unfilled, just big and round. A marmot lives there, pays no rent, Neither explains the other’s intent. Nobody knows why Nobody knows why A marmot cannot testify Nobody knows why What’s this on Rob's ball cap — a symbol? A map? Your equanimity's lost at sight of ear flaps. Are those pants or capris, socks up to the knees, what will he be wearing next, a chemise? He named his son Hugh, like an old British earl, Eighteenth century echo unfurled: “Hugh,” pronounced with gravitas, Tom G blinks twice, then lets it pass. Nobody knows why Nobody knows why The questions die, his friends comply Nobody knows why He brews up concoctions, rubs them on skin Ankles to elbows to buttcheeks to chin The accounting is late, by strange tradition. he packs for flights with bag once used for ammunition He doesn't eat sweets, no fast food intake posts charts of the week that are mostly opaque Holds a rainbow trout like he's shotgun-wielding and nearly kills his sister putting ladder on a ceiling Nobody knows why Nobody knows why The details mount, the reasons slip by Nobody knows why A Chinese menu, vast and wide, Every single dish in the world inside. Rob studies the menu, then says with a smile "Can I get asparagus in a pile" His world unwinds in ways awry We take it in and don’t deny The pattern holds, it multiplies Nobody knows why Nobody knows why
