I awake one morning: a cartoon mule,
my new body cel-shaded
three monochrome colors–
a Pleasure Island reject–
but nobody bats an eye.

I keep a pair of glasses,
three missing teeth, a goaty beard
that is drawn into the shape of my new head,
the stubborn attitude that has plagued me
almost all my life.

My cartoon ears can hear
like a microphone. Watch them oscillate
like some sort of satellite, my cloven fumbling
for my cell phone, my lighter–
the daily rituals that tether me to form.

I clop against linoleum floors, a caricature 
framed in doubt again, doused in ink
and worry.

Outside the people walk
so freely with their human legs,
smooth skin, short teeth.

I reconcile my new penciled-in truth–
to lean into gray shadow,
this ragged shading.