Way back when, Aristotle said
that luck is when the guy
next to you gets hit with the arrow.
Centuries on, Freud said, the self
cannot imagine its own death;
that ego, id and super chief
live on long after redwood wilteth.
Then biology spoke to say
that the body, to survive,
rejects all foreigners—
human nature, Spartan style.
Now, light years into this lifetime,
there’s news . . . the human heart
can be transplanted.
Your heart can live in me,
my heart can live in you—
baboon and bigot, pig and pederast,
compatible as Lincoln logs.
Comrades, imagine that!
Now can you feel the arrow?