Think About It
Bruce McRae

The mind takes little jaunts in the brain’s jalopy,
the galaxy its playground, our body a rocket.
The mind soars over North and South America.
From this distance it reminds me of the letter m
or a family bible opened at the psalms.

Like a little brother, it follows you everywhere.
You were contented contemplating Mary Jo’s pants—
until the mind excitedly interjected.
But who needs indecision at a time like this?

The mind is an organ, like skin.
At the same time, it doesn’t actually exist,
much as God or Superman.

A terrible thing to waste, the mind
is like a bird on a snowy tree branch.
Happy to revel in its own non-being.

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