There are two

very

important

things that you learn in anatomy class.

 

The first

is that if you hold your phone just under your skirt,

you’ll never get caught texting those two

very

handsome

guys that you cannot get over.

 

And the second

is that the appendix does absolutely nothing.

 

Indeed,

the skin

is a martyr to kindergarten playground scrapes;

The intestines

are nutrients’ catacombs;

The mind

is a high-voltage battery;

The heart

is a hyperactive metronome;

 

And the appendix

does absolutely nothing.

 

But if I, a living human,

am to trust a textbook, torn up trees,

and believe

that the appendix does absolutely nothing,

then I am to believe

that history has done absolutely nothing.

 

Because my ancestors could have lived

because of something that the appendix did

and because without these ancestors,

there would be no society

to protect people

with appendixes that do absolutely nothing.

 

And if I, a living human,

am to trust a textbook, torn up trees,

and believe

that the appendix does absolutely nothing,

then I am to believe

that I can do absolutely nothing.

 

Because “experts” condemn things to irrelevancy

because they lack the imagination that breeds inquiry

to save people from suffering the same fate as the appendix

which does absolutely nothing.

 

So I implore the world to tell me

that the appendix is something that I can live without

call it vestigial, trivial

state in bold that appendix serves no purpose.

Because that strange little tube

is attached to me, and we’re both full of infinite possibility.

 

I think that’s definitely worth something.