I think that somewhere, perhaps,
against all odds, as astronomical
as a metallic man in Vegas
giving me pocket change,
that my double, a ghost
in a three-piece suit,
follows me as fastidiously as a butler.
I glimpse him from the corner of my eye,
picking up paper I dropped
or making excuses for a clumsy run-in
I had with a pedestrian.
In short, he is picking up my mess,
the inevitable dregs fallen from my life
like scales fallen from the skin of Adam.
If I turn my head sharply,
looking long and hard,
he disappears. But
that is the way it is, I suppose
when one tries hard to glimpse
the minions of God.
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