Identity Theft

I'll walk home from the seamstress
spewing out her stilted dialect
with my hips stuttering in a weathered gait
until tomorrow
when I meet the butcher
and dice a bundle of carrots with a thumb
curled just so under the knife 
but then later
when I devour that dinner
with the same slovenly hands
my wife uses to wipe the off-orange stains
from both our cheeks until
even later
when I curl myself next to the dog
not vice versa
and what they never tell you is how each night
the impressionist is left to steal the peeling paint
off the bedroom walls.