A Mind of Its Own
July 2 2026
Those times you lose track,
but the car
somehow finds its way home.
As if there’s some part of your brain
that has no need of you,
annoyingly impervious
to your sense of self
and with a mind of its own.
As if you began as twins
one of which absorbed the other
before either was born.
Cannibalized,
like sand tiger sharks, swimming in their mother’s womb,
preying on the weakest
and honing their skills.
Your hands, autonomous,
your eyes
seeing for themselves.
And that sly homunculus
sequestered deep in your cortex
in some inscrutable lobe
quietly living its sheltered life;
and who, unasked
takes the wheel
and shepherds you home.
A philosopher might wonder
about the complexity of consciousness
and the question of free will.
But you're a simple man
and just appreciate the break
from being yourself;
that lost interval
when your mind, disembodied
was free to wander,
like an astral traveller
untethered from time.
It’s only turning into the driveway
that your mysterious twin
relinquishes the wheel
and you snap back to the world
— as if a hypnotist
had clapped his hands
and there you were;
your mind a blank
and eyes glazed,
hands, firmly placed
at 10 and 2.
Which just confirms
how slippery memory is.
And leaves you wondering, how often
are you absent like this?
Are you living a secret life
even more of the time?
Which twin
is really in control?
Which twin are you?
I imagine we’ve all experienced this: driving on autopilot, and no memory of how we got from A to B.
I’m not the simple man in the poem, and do wonder about both the complexity and inscrutability of consciousness. Wonder how much we know ourselves. Wonder about all the other autonomous things the brain might be up to. Is our conscious awareness just a sliver of what goes on?
One sure thing we’re left out of is the mind/body loop. Which is good. Because if we had to consciously run everything — from the immune system to the heartbeat — there’d be no time left to clean up after dog . . . or write poetry!
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