Welcome to the Late Show

poem

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Damn, my body doesn't belong to me.
I'm depression's marionette—
a tremble of strings, arms, hands,
	legs, and feet.

Put me onstage. Give me the lead role
	in a minor tragedy.
Make me play war. Make me a soldier
	with a knife in his head.
It's okay. My body doesn't belong to me.

Put me on the sidewalk. Make me
	spin, stagger, and leap.
Make me doff my hat and beg:
"Ladies and gentlemen, can you spare
	a dime for this tremble
	of strings, arms, hands,
	legs, and feet."

Make me a mime. Make me silently
	scream.
Make me rue. Make me rage.
	Make me regret.
Make me anything. My body
	doesn't belong to me.

I'm depression's marionette, clumsy
and dumb. Make me collapse. Make me
	a trembling and tangled mess
of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet.

Drape me over the altar. Make me
	pray. Make me weep.
Play the church organ. I'll play dead.
This isn't me. It's just a body—
a tremble and tangle of strings,
	arms, hands,
	legs, and feet.