if my eyes dart from east to west
in nervous twitching saccades
like mice in the humdrum dark
skirting from hiding-spot to hiding-spot

if my mouth stammers in pressured speech
as though each consonant hurts to let go
like a stray hungry dog unsure
whether to approach the friendly hand
or to run away

(for the past has not been kind to him
and the present has no gift to bear
and the starving hound’s loyal snout reveals
the scars of a violent youth)

if i may seem timid, desolate, and abandoned
(and my bloodshot eyes reflect
a homeless canine’s whimpers
and a rodent’s broken whiskers)

forgive me
for it is only because i am.