What Kind Of A Person

 "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 system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.

I'm a person for the surface of the earth.

Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me.
 Mountain peaks
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 sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.

At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.


Arrows do not direct me.
 I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.


s Now I stand at the side of the street
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 god-man
Whose days are numbered.
 Hallelujah.

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