Measure Of A Man
P Patti Masterman
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Strange that all we are's a bit of pock marked plasma;
Fish scales and staring eyes, hair and claws,
Skin tissue with some epoxy seeping through.
A bit of webbing, a bit of cartilage;
Rib cages and tail bones,
Grit and gristle.
A greasy, leaky mess of tendons,
Femurs and clavicles;
Inedible at best, but mostly valued
For our complex brain;
Itself only jello, without any mold
And less substantive than play-doh
More nerveless than the amoeba:
The mushroomed foreskin of our endless curiosity.
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