The Art of Who We Are

There is no cable, bolt or digital device
within me. The raw essence of who I am
is not machine. I will never be again.

It’s so easy to forget I am unique.
To pretend whatever I do doesn’t
really matter in the complex scheme
of things happening now or yet to be.

The time on my walk that I stopped
to watch a fly land on a leaf
and frantically rub its face as if
washing up, wouldn’t make a pinch
of difference to the future. But it did.

That pause kept me from crossing
the street just as a driver texting
applause to her friend who just posted
the most amazing selfie in a red dress,
ran the stop sign between me, death

and her lifelong devastation. A robot
would not watch a small thing like a fly
for a moment. The art of being human
comes in handy whether or not we know it.