When did I become this stranger?
What strange land has replaced my home?
And who is this woman offering her cheek
not her mouth for a kiss?
Who took down the mirrors? Removed the view?
Who chose this terrible colour? And who stuck
that picture in my passport that makes
people look at me so.
Who shouts “Qui Vive?” I know
coppers get younger but when did they
get so threatening?
Why must I move on? Where to?
Whose clothes are these? Am I
really that size? Or have I growed
like Topsy, in the night?
Is it night again soon?
Have I slept? I can’t remember:
am I meant to be this wretched?
Is this how I usually feel?
Is this who I really am?