What a spicy meatball of a life This curious little salamander body That is birthed and breathes While the moon continues to orbit overhead And space debris wink in the night sky.
Our individual unique little faces and souls Born from millions of protein lego pieces, And worn by family and circumstance And sometimes pure chance' caprices.
What a deliciously weird solo recital, These pink-and-green, Everything-in-between Fleeting lives, In these absurdly floppy flesh costumes, Bound by a slippery fable of time and place, Of colour and race.
Some chapters are full of pain and struggle, As we dance on the precipice between Textbook norms and rebellious liberation. But what fascinatingly quirky, And gateaux-rich our little short stories are - Sometimes swollen and aflame with sadness Then extinguished with timely humour.
This time we are gifted in history, Whether the first journey or our souls 332nd We have it to taste fresh bread, Chat to bus drivers, Stroke the perfection of a pompom dahlia Talk baby to the neighbors dog Laugh heartily at our shortfalls Pop pimples, Sob out the pain in our body Smell old books And laugh our way to double chins.