If my brain is my most precious part,
the piece of me that thinks and makes art,
why is it so delicate, like an egg
that gets scrambled when I trip a leg
and short-circuits some of my trillion synapses
when I hit my head and consciousness lapses?
If I were, in fact, intelligently designed,
my anatomy would be better aligned.
My jelly-like brain would be near the ground,
say in my calves, so if I fall down
on concrete when I slip on ice or snow,
my brain doesn’t have so far to go.