I am alive and breathing,
You are the first, on the left-hand page.
I am living in a terrace house,
You are a shout in the ancient streets and alleyways.
I am stood at the bus stop,
You are the site where the future saint was just wounded.
I am mooching, just walking through town,
You are layers of the city’s topographical palimpsest.
I am clamped, still working it out,
You are recording, and informing on worlds events.
I am clumsy with words sometimes,
You are ironic, ambiguous and sometimes you’re heard.
I am trying to learn,
You are the overt literary references.
I am nice and friendly,
You are only a symbol of reconciliation.
I could count my friends on my fingers,
You are lingering, fuelling old fears.
I am hanging to a humble outlook,
You are patriotic, historic, above all aesthetically artistic.
I am taking each day as it comes,
You are fifty drafts long and then done.
I am one in seven billion,
You are published and indefinitely reproducible.
I may not be very interesting,
But you, you may not be real.