Subject, Verb, Object

I is not ego, not the sum
of your unique experiences,
just, democratically,
whoever's talking,
a kind of motel room,
yours till the end—
that is, of the sentence.

The language, actually,
doesn't think I's important,
stressing, even in
grandiose utterance—
e.g., I came
I saw I conquered—
the other syllables.

Oh, it's a technical problem,
sure, the rhyme
on oh-so-open
lie, cry, I,
harder to stitch tight
than the ozone
hole in the sky.

But worst is its plodding insistence—
I, I, I—
somebody huffing uphill,
face red as a Stop sign,
scared by a doctor
or some He She It
surprised in the mirror.