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.
"

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