A matter of identity –
not who you think you are
or what you claim to be; that is
too easily suspended in fanciful
images quite lavishly dreamed –
no, it’s an impartial
without moderation
appraisal
of what others see
sort of thing,
like your name means zilch
but your skin tone says probably Caucasian,
and your eyes attest a tad of Asian blood
and what you’re eating guesses to
Middle Eastern origins:
harder ducking salutations like that
than a change of sandals, tho a turban
hefts a wicked bat if accompanied by
a pink skirt saying ‘whew!’
your self-view doesn’t matter –
identity is outside of that
safely immune to battery by ego-indulgence;
thus to any consensus – ‘it’ – (meaning you)
appears a pretentiously blasé male cross-dresser
of say 48 years with charitable friends,
so the legend goes –
and he’s OK, really – just great
to have around in an identity
crisis
© 17 October 2012, I. D. Carswell
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