The Eyes Follow You Round the Room

I know what I will be. I have
the evidence pinned up on my walls. I have
the models mounted on my mantelpiece.
I know this face, this self-considering stare.
Clever clumps of DNA have laid
my fortune down and in these faces
I can know what I will be.

I don’t know if I will be as pompous as this one,
though I have his nose
(and probably his waistcoat, hidden away).

I don’t think I’ve ever been as smug as her,
though I can see my irises reflected in her eyes.

That one was clever, this I know,
and probably was cleverer than me.
I have some portion of his brain,
programmed inside me, waiting
to burst forth with some discovery.

But not one of them asked if I
should want this fate. I had no say
in my share of their likenesses
Or said I wanted to look this way.

They give me clues about what
they aspired to but not what they were.
Which I aspire to, too, I guess
but with, possibly, less fur.