Someone once told me that a man,
Is nothing more than
150 pounds of flesh,
blood, guts, grey matter,
and bone.

But I still wonder about

The physics of the human heart.
And the meaning of a smile

But where’s the point of
Coloring outside the lines
And connecting the dots?

The picture is never the same

In class
I weave infinite threads of history
Into some coherent tapestry

While Shakespeare, Dickens, and Wordsworth
Beg me to read their minds on paper
And raise them from their graves
To tell what they obviously meant

At the piano
The notes on the music
Run through my fingers
With no question
As to why or how

In the crowd, I think
Did someone call my name?
But when I turn around
It’s always someone else

Walking away
I can’t help but let go

The words escape me
And drift away in the wind.