My ego stepped out for a moment
Lit its cigarette, spat in the bushes.
I slid onto the stool in the kitchen and looked out the window.
Is it possible?
I could simply be a garden hoe.
Leaning there, against the shed
In the spring,
The gardener may pick me up
And I will find a purpose
In weeding the moist earth,
Making beautiful the garden.
Then my ego,
Having stamped out that
Last burning Marlboro,
Returns to remind me
That I believe I am the gardener
And not simply the tool
Of a greater genius.