Staggering past the bathroom mirror
Just before dawn on a Saturday,
Phrases surface in recognition
Of something like an identity.
Well, it's all somebody else's fault,
That's all I've got to say, whoever
I am saying it, baby over
One shoulder, not even sure what floor
Of this rented old house I'm on now,
Whether I have to walk up or down.
It's morning, more or less, another
Day, another month, another life,
Another transformation of this
Thing I'm in the habit of calling
Me, whatever it actually is,
Somehow in a kitchen, making tea.