What, Not Who

The guy at the cashier asks: “What are you?”
I think about his question.
He asked what I am,
not who I am.
I smile:
“I am the dock to every:
‘I’m sorry.
I meant to grope the Mayo on the shelf.’
I am a Peter Pan sized Tinker Bell.
A Strawberry tasting Avocado about to go to waste.
I am the morning breath of a cigarette,
and the body odor of Lavender leaves.
I am the wave which rises from the bottom of the ocean
and crashes right back into itself.
I am a raisin cookie masquerading as a chocolate chip.
I am the boat with the paddles
in the middle of a water tornado,
heading towards the center of the chaos.
I am the grenade you hold in your hand
with a gentle pressure applied at the tip,
just to keep it from blowing up.
The “What” that I come from is a million years ahead of yours.
The “What” I am made of is better described as
the result of oppression in a seemingly welcoming,
liberal,
scheme.
I am the silence of witnesses.
I am the cries of victims who are throat fed the sentence: “It’s your fault.”
I am the exact meaning to the utterance of my name.
What about you? What are you?”
“9,500 L.L.”

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