Who are you in your
baggy black jeans, watching
piss ants form long tedious lines
from ground to
Who are you with your
tight pin stripes, walking the
easy walk through spit fire
Who are you, resting raw on old
Who are you with your bold thumbs,
and your forward reflex,
and your creamy repose?
Who are you to those who know your
thoughtful silence, or your blunt anger,
or your cold shoulder?
Who are you to the ant, the ground, and the leaves?
And, then, who are you to me?