Being the hundredth monkey
I am left with a dilemma — wash
the potato or abstain.
I alone hold the key.
I might rather remark
on the grip some dirt provides
and maybe the microbes.
I may relish some grit
in my teeth and a slow
enameled erosion.
I may wonder whether
one simple conformity
makes me less so macaque.
I may think about churches,
furrows and electromagnetic
intrusion.
I may think these hands
too nimble.
I may rethink these thumbs.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 