Questionable

My feet are under the table, white linen is beneath the blue and white plates, the cutlery is sparklingly clean I have been up all night polishing it. Whatever the answer is I need to always be a question mark. It’s good to be a guest of myself. I will sit on a seat near the door least I need to go out and in again. There is nothing questionable here. I go to the kitchen to set fire to a cloud of fruit flies. The cloud hovers simmering for a while then bursts into flames. A phoenix does not arise, but the cloud takes a seat planting its burnt vapors under the table board while staring intently left where I had just left. Teacups tremble. When I come back to the dining room the burnt cloud of fruit flies morphs into a beautiful woman. Her pink lobster tail is tucked coquettishly under her right arm. I may have to spray her with Lysol or eat her before she attracts more flies, but the butter has not melted yet. Now I have questions, now certain answers must be observed and served from a silver engraved tureen. Pea green pepper soup pours into open mouths, mouths I have previously allotted place-names to, cards printed in gold leaf in front of pockets of air and folded like unspent money. Any questions must wait now until the dormouse wakes up to ask what time it is.