Imperfect Knowledge

I think I know myself . . .
imperfectly, but better than mom or dad.
I am an invention of an imagination
recharged with recurring stories and images.
I may be started somewhere near "The Little
Red Hen" but I have evolved well beyond
the Heinlein Space Cadets, from twinkle,
twinkle star to beyond the studied cadences
of Bach to the blistering incadences of
"music" beyond my musical vocabulary.

I hear my footsteps from yesterday echoing
among the foot-clapping sound of tomorrow's
half-hour funs. I remain who I was to a degree
not always recognizable even to you or me.
I think I don't know who I am.