Old Theseus had a bum ball and joint,
simply worn out by life at this point.
That shoulder, so bright and pink, it did flare
no salve, nor cool ice could soothe that raw tear.
The cutter will cut if you want a new part,
been extensively trained in this very art.
That surgeon, so deft, so eager to play
as if God herself graced the OR on that day.
Theo gave pause and he wanted to know
’bout how many surgeries he had for his show.
With an assured stance, strong like a mountain
proclaimed he’d cut open six hundred, and counting.
Theo then started to wonder about
just how many body parts he could swap out.
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The doc said that he could, for sure, do them all,
small part by small part, cell wall by cell wall.
If I did them all would Theo then cease?
I’d become all brand new, only piece by small piece.
I wonder, he continued to stew on a while
which of those swaps puts me right out of style?
The brain could make me a someone, brand new
but AI could think anything I could think, too.
Then it must be when someone arrives at the heart
that the quandary arrives at its opposite start.
It at once becomes patent, simple, and clear,
from the way out in front to the end of the rear,
That if any one segment were jarred on a shelf
the one that would cause you to be not yourself…
That part: It’s your heart.
—for Rogers
