to realize that I am not the glass being shattered
on the street below, or the laughter that follows it;
I’m not even one of the congregation on my small TV,
getting the Lord’s good news, though I can reach
the screen by leaning forward, and touch

the wavering lines of each transfigured face. I tell you
I can’t get over it sometimes, I still have trouble
believing that an egg deep inside my own body
went and turned into someone else, who right now
is on a tour boat on the river, having forgotten

how she used to hold on to my legs whenever I tried
to leave the room. Right now, somewhere I am not,
the history of the world is being decided,
and the terrible things I’d rather not think of
go on and on without stopping, while I separate

the two halves of another cookie and lick
the cream filling, and pour myself one more
and drink to you, dear reader, amazed
that you are somewhere in the world without me,
listening, trying to hold me in your hands.