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The Doppelganger

I try to sneak around him, but he always sees Im there
and catches me on mornings when Im vulnerable and bare.
Just stepping from the shower, feeling springy as a rose,
about to shave its then the saggy, wrinkled horror shows:

and like a little bird I stare into his cobra eyes,
and like a sinner staring at his sin theres no surprise.
This glass of bitters, falsest front, whose shallow face is blind;
a hide stretched on a silver plate my twin, and yet not kind

a karmic shadow aping me, my tragicomic mask
wholl match me stride for stride, though Im not equal to the task.
My mockery, my mime, my evil clown, my own poor skin
whose faults stand naked to be seen, except what lies within.

Ed Shacklee


If you have any comments on this poem, Ed Shacklee   would be pleased to hear from you.

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