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Inner Man

 It isn't the body
That's a stranger.
It's someone else.
We poke the same Ugly mug At the world.
When I scratch He scratches too.
There are women Who claim to have held him.
A dog Follows me about.
It might be his.
If I'm quiet, he's quieter.
So I forget him.
Yet, as I bend down To tie my shoelaces, He's standing up.
We caste a single shadow.
Whose shadow? I'd like to say: "He was un the beginning And he'll be in the end," But one can't be sure.
At night As I sit Shuffling the cards of our silence, I say to him: "Though you utter Every one of my words, You are a stranger.
It's time you spoke.

by Charles Simic
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