I am writing this poem in my underwear: nothing to dress up
the animal that just woofed down a ham sandwich,
adding to the accumulation of myself. Do you also
make a habit of consumption? Do you collect trophies,
artifacts (memories are artifacts) whose absence
would leave you naked, somehow less than yourself?
Every time I drop my coverups they boomerang
back at me.
What will you lose to become
the person you absolutely almost are?