"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient
And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and
Frighten me.
Mountain
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.
I'm not flat and
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy
Mashing good and bad
For a little
And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me.
I
My business carefully and
Like a long will that began to be
The moment I was born.s Now I stand at the side of the
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car,
I'm a person,
A man-god, a
Whose days are numbered.
Hallelujah.
