A poem is a riddle and I am its Sphinx,
Unless someone else wrote the poem you are thinking of—
in which case my nose is intact and my paws are remarkably homonoid.
A poem is a griddle, and you are its links,
Unless you aren’t reading the poem—
in which case you’re probably not some sort of meat wrapped in skin either.
You might be a river.
Or a creek. Or an ocean. Or a stream.
Or a great flood that covers all the land despite all the rainbows.
Maybe that’s why people approach you in pairs.