Sometimes I think

I am a lizard,

lounging on a fence I never chose,

the midday sun peeling discoloured scales

from my back,

like old turpentine.

My horned head jerks, sharp and sudden,

watching waifs tussle at the rusted tap,

bony elbows flailing,

cracked feet scalded by concrete.

I eat whatever comes—

ants laced with things I can’t pronounce:

quinines, phetamines,

chemicals that swell in the gut

and wait in silence.

My belly is bloated

with secrets not my own—

just whispers the wind carries

from both sides of the fence.

And still, I sit.

Still, I watch.

Still, I wait,

balanced on this godforsaken fence.