MY DOPPELGANGER BY Frank C. Praeger
I could be a political cliche, a presumptive right or obligatory privilege, a shadow hiding entitlements for the rich, and, yes, the dogs are out, oh, yeah, the dogs are out, out of years, excuses, dreams, squat now among tree stumps, overturned =lower pots, discarded tampons, Band-‐Aids, vitreous fragments, impending intimate decay. My doppelganger, also, squats, refuses solace, he says everything seems, then, he starts to bark at a tree. Discombobulated, I ignore him, then, deny acquaintanceship, then, kick a tin can, then, another,
then, walk away.
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