Every Once in a While

Someone will drop dead while I'm fiddling,
Singing out at the last, "This is all
Very good, well becomes a pulpit,

But what's this to a philosopher?"
Today an earnest woman told me
The world would be a better place if

There were more people like me in it.
I doubt it, although I think I know
What her strenuous compliment meant.

Something ethical was implicit,
However mistaken. I get it,
But I wonder re the rest of me.

Would the world be better with more frail,
Glass-boned humans in it? I don't doubt
My skeleton played some role for her

When evaluating bravery,
But would human society be
Enhanced by more cracked citizenry?

It seems unlikely. The human race
Could be put in danger of going,
Despite billions at present, extinct.

If not extinction then constriction,
A severe genetic bottleneck,
Would be visited on a species

With too many mutations like me.
Not good, not for humans, but who knows,
Maybe better for the world. Maybe

Even a new, much-altered species
Of bright biped, also successful
But not so detrimental, might breed.

Taken holistically, more like me
Would not be likely, howsomever
Compounded of grave integrity,

Linearly to enhance existence
For her, however much she praised me
In my singularity. I'm rare,

And humans so cherish rarity.
She's likely never met another
Soul kitted out with glass bones like me.

She may never meet another me.
But if we were increasing smoothly
In her neighborhood's demography,

I doubt diligent integrity
Would save us from becoming a threat,
Alien beings with different needs

Consuming medical resources
And parking disproportionately.
No, the world is not better for me.