Out From The Miraculous Hiding Place Poem by Stephen Bennett The Playjurist

By the time all of this has been written to the end,
and subsequently read by you or your friend
the writer maybe will have alluded to
a broad and many membered field of made up
imaginary things presumably known
well by all people everywhere
and also by you
and you may feel put upon yourself
the expectation you should know them too.
But such an anyone as this writer could imagine
is quite an imaginary thing too.
The real thing that makes a person feel stupid,
when he (she) doesn't know what most other people
around him (her) also does (do) not, are not
unlike what a midway vendor is supposed to say,
when asked, “why does this cost so much? ”
and the given line is a facade,
a hiding place
that covers over a body understood by all
to be nothing, but wink wink nudge nudge...
pretending at an everywhere wanna be something
which sorely longs to be filled. In the always empty
county fair-stall passed by, as it's passed by,
by responsibly curious minds, who cannot
help to not act as though all we need
to know is, or is close to explained...
The important answers are all known
and all sane,
even though they're not known by us,
we know the facade is an apparently necessary
made up thing. And it's a most of the time
good enough thing,
but all the surfaces of either this or that, with all
of their substantial lack, contrasts before us
all of a something that waits to be back. Tare off
the cover and turn on the light. Pick the pieces apart
and stare through the glass. Nothing is there
except for that, which we first thought,
which has just disappeared