The Id's Ego Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Captivated by another world,
I lead this body around. He
Never quite knows where he is going,
Or where he might be found.
Hither and dither often bucolically,
Or some times all the way to town,
And I ride him just as you would a fiberglass
Pony on the candy-striped pole of a merry-go-around.

He is not quite as burnished as the waves,
But they no longer roll the same as they did back in
The day, and when around women he sometimes gets
Stuck and begins to stutter like an old ignition in
A beat-up truck;
But I rarely bother, for I can move him quite
Ostentatiously; I can make him jump, and swim inside him
Like a fish, I can bend his elbow;
I can bite his lip,
And stand him in front of a class, raise his hand in
A pedantic pose, I can relay a sententious phrase,
And sit him back down while everyone else strays.

Or I can lie him down when his body tends to nod;
And let him rest while I dreamily jaunt over the seas of
12 point font; or if I lay and read for days,
I could put him into a thick malaise;
But for as long as he is breathing, I choose to stay somewhere
In back of where he is grieving;
But when the makers should box him back up,
Say he is broken and no longer works; then I will stand
Straight up and swan-dive right out of this jerk;
For I am no simpleton nor am I a Turk,
And though I may linger above him until the sunlight reposes,
I won’t shed a tear, nor smell the bouquet of roses.
I wont read the epitaph, I wont say a thing,
I wont feel the wind or the rain,
But will go down from that hill as easily as I should,
And seek out another fine fellow, and slip under his hood;
And ride with him for a while as he goes,
And take off his shoes,
And pick his nose,
And lay him down and read for awhile,
Or watch the sunset, and make him smile.