Where It Sounds Like It’s Raining

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 searches too.

There are women
who claim to have held him.
A dog follows him about,
that claims to be his.

If they are quiet,
he is quieter.
If they forget him,
he forgets too.
If he ties his shoelace,
they always notice.

I’d like to say,
“He was in the beginning,
he’ll be there in the end.”
And have it be true.

At night,
as I sit
shuffling the cards,
I say to him,

“Though you listen
to every one of my words,
you are a stranger,
to each person I speak.”

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