I live in a postmarked envelope,
in a pair of socks,
in a bull and matador fantasy,
and when Ginger knocks on my door
or caresses my rusty padlock,
I come out of whatever I’m in,
and no matter where we venture
it’s as if the periodic table of elements
has magically doubled, sometimes tripled.
It’s weird how a piece of paper with enough little boxes
can contain the world.
No one voted on this current state of affairs,
and I no longer trust my arms and legs
or any other force of nature.
We walk around taking inventory
of everything bigger than ourselves:
literal giants, like André Roussimoff,
whose pituitary mutations pump them up;
literary giants, like Samuel Beckett,
who drive about in their shiny black cars.
When she gently takes my earlobe between her teeth,
I tower over myself,
and end up on the list.
On days when Ginger is busy, night brings promise
of her return.
Those with their own rooms
explore their own bodies.
Those with dream homes
draw moats for protection.