The 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 in 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.”


(Charles Simic)