Now, here’s a little sign of me, I’m sure
I stubbed the stone,
We watched it spin.
There’s is some hint that it is me
Who holds this book,
And moves the page.
Now, here’s a sign that you might see
I tipped the glass,
Just see the stain.
It’s true, be fair, she looked at me
That glimpse, for sure,
It met her eye.
There’s to be judged, a part of me
That’s growing old,
And tastes the bitter pain of loss.
Still, there is that big chunk of me
Who drives the pen,
And bids it please do think.
I AM! therefore, I am.
-p
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