Indecision

I do everything like a question

waiting for its echo - a voice from the well;

soft as a mother, authoritative as a judge,

beguiling as it is unnecessary.  Who is this

wise inhabitant of a distant land?  Why

must I consider his opinion as near sacred?

I who am flummoxed by whether to put the

milk in first or second, or turn right or left

at a particular time of day, when I have

no concept of the specifics of traffic levels

down one street or other, but he knows,

of course he does, though I can neither see him,

or hear him but as a shadow of my own lost voice.

How long in this second infancy, til I can once again

walk on my own two feet?