Читать книгу Penumbra - Michael Shewmaker - Страница 10

Doppelgänger

Who is this double goer, this familiar stranger

following me with pockets full of moths—

this moonlit strider, hawker who won’t pass by

even when I pause to make a call—this changer

of pace and posture, alley pisser with swaths

of unrequited time?

What does he spy

in the limp rose on my lapel—in my unrest—

the half-smoked cigarette, my borrowed clothes?

Why must he check his pocket watch?

And why

must he escort me to my door in his pressed

black tie?