Song of Myself

Today I met 13 versions of myself;
I was in the beer a man gargled in his mouth
and then later in his empty bottle,
in the white paint crossing the crosswalk,
in the dusty tomes at Dunaway Books,
concentrated in the piccolo gelato cup,
fresh and exotic in the Vietnamese spring rolls.
I wasn’t in the hookah or the hose or your lungs,
but rather in Abraham Lincoln’s copper face
that smells a bit like bloody dirt
and in the bench at the bus stop,
(I saw myself in the peeling paint)
suddenly I was everywhere!
in the rain
and on the fire escape
in the headlines
and on your face
I was here
and there
and there
and here--
I was even in my own body.