I think I get it now: persona not chassis, not even
much more than a paint job, that beautiful glossy
surface we spent centuries of childhood assembling
as if the self were a prized model car, lacquer and dope
finally sanded down by time to show the surprise—
base gold—beneath. Listen: our toy trannies mewling
as the gears wear to smooth circles, our gilded pinstripes
unraveling with a hiss to run off like garden snakes in
the junkyard, molting in rust, grass-green in new skin.
Thanks for the inspiration, Shelly.