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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.

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