I've tripped over my own feet
so many times this week
that I'm starting to feel that
these limbs I've grown into
are not the ones I'm used to.
I woke up today thinking that
my hair's a little duller,
and my hips a little fuller,
- crooked teeth.
- - -
I fear that the strangers in the hall
can't see me.
Or that they can.
I don't know which is worse.
You look the way you do every day -
at me and the shapes that my shadows
make under the fluorescence.
I am convinced that I can taste the pity,
overpowering even the bitterness of the coffee,
you, somewhat reluctantly, say it's an acquired taste.
The lights are too dim here to see your point.
I didn't say exactly that they were a papercut in human form,
but I also did not say they weren't.