The Ship of Theseus

by David M. Harris

I am the ship of Theseus, repaired
so many times, parts replaced until
nothing of the original remains.

Oh, my arms and legs, even my failing
ears, are all the ones I was born with.
Some of my ideas have not changed
since college, when they were born,
half a century ago. Others look different
at a glance, but only in how
they manifest themselves.
                                   My hair
was longer, then shorter, then shaved,
and short, and a ponytail, now
short again; blond once, then brown,
then grayish, now bluish. Sometimes
it was a political choice, although
my politics haven’t changed that much.

I still believe in social and economic
justice, even if those phrases
were less common when I came to the ideas.
I didn’t believe in marriage then,
but now I’ve committed it twice.
                                         I now suspect
I was always a poet, but couldn’t admit it
to myself. Bred into fiction by my work
and training, by most of my reading,
imagine my surprise when I started
writing poetry. Hanging out with bad
influences, but good poets.
                                   But
I’ve written so many other genres,
is poetry that much of a change?

Maybe I am not who I was.
One of my ex-wives expected me
to be the boy she knew
in high school. Disappointed.
But I still feel like me.