Some people occupy their bodies
as a tourist in a motor home,
moving it back and forth,
the last location
same as the first.
These jerky movements,
this mouth and tongue,
electric wheel chair
controlled by my right thumb,
are not me.
When we meet, I want you to know
I am a poet. The chimera lives
in your mythology, grotesque
a lion head, a goat body, and a serpent tail.
This finger can sing without lips.
Some of us live our lives sparingly,
the way a sunlit carpet contents
a cat, or a digit completes a word.