my body, like that reconditioned
japanese liteace, earlier, i owned
works beautifully well
pumping blood, poetically
as if crafting a Shakespearean sonnet
though the scars of the surgeon’s scalpel
on my left fore arm, left leg, and chest
could not be covered, unlike in my van
with white paint, a colour i cherish with black
to contrast my present moments of orientation
from that earlier instances of disorientations
that tore my soul with betrayals
painted and etched in my heart, as a Blakean art
while i was still in the intensive care
of the men and women dedicated
to establish that rhythmic beat
transcending the wrinkles
those character lines of my skin
suggesting a panoramic view of my life
dotted and sheltered with love
