It took years and years for someone
to finally figure out the answer.
Obvious, if you thought a moment
but mortals don’t think, why they wage
so many wars: if they can’t solve
a riddle in the blink of a wolf’s eye,
they toss spoiled-brat tantrums.
So I suspected nothing when I stopped
that lame traveler and demanded,
“What goes on four legs at dawn,
two at noon, and three in the evening?”
“Man!” he smirked, and down I plunged
into Hades, and he went on his way,
but met a hard fate in Thebes.
What always annoyed me about the answer?
“Man,” not “Woman,” as if we females
are of no consequence. A woman—
not that one ever trekked up to my cliff—
would’ve known the answer in a finger-snap.
It’s so dim down here, no sun to bask in
while I wait for fools on my mountain crag.
That was the life! All the leisure in the world,
and a steady diet of dullards
who refused to use their imagination.
