my smaller, marginal ‘i’ refuses that merging
with that larger ‘we’ that is part of the still larger
and unlimited, ever expanding elastic cosmos embracing
the little ‘i’ as the ocean readily cuddles the rain drop
and my little revolts, then, are speedily stated
in my careful scrubbing of the tiny oil drop
on my driveway, left behind by my daughter’s car
that has just pulled out from my parking spot
and also on my spraying lysol, on my toilet seat
every time my friend pays a social visit to my abode
as if he has left a graffiti on the wall like a restless teen
protesting that we grow
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