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." Submitted by Adam Stokke
Added: 5 May 2003 | Last Read: 27 Mar 2017 2:33 AM | Viewed: 7165 times
A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.
ON SALE - only
For more information...