And thinking about all adult men,
some of them quite old, refraining from touching the text,
only using a godly pointer whose term I forget if I ever knew,
I'm sure they must have known, somewhere in Talmud,
the way to bless the sprinkler and the time of day to turn the water on.
And whether to call the play gear 'monkey bars'
since the relationship between primates and
cylindrically-shaped objects get governed in certain ways.
To them, my ways must seem like Hunter Thompson's,
a man adrift in mistake. And whether to turn on a fan
in a particular weather. It's all so crazy and sacred.
And they write about me, in the interstices and prayers.