My Other

Quietly, quietly,
it is the other one
who does not believe in work.

When I wish my colleagues good morning,
he sleeps soundlessly in my bed.

When I talk to clients,
he mumbles why bother in his dreams.

Quietly, quietly,
it is the other one,
the one who shares my name,
who does not belong.

His room, dusty and littered with laundry,
is not my room.

My room is tidy and objective.
I have tried many times to chase him out.

When I come home with my packet of dinner,
he wakes up, rubs his eyes
and snatches it from me.

He puts on my clothes, steals my money, and tells me
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

When I go to bed hungry
he leaves the house with my keys
and prowls the night for poetry.

His streets are not my streets.
I am afraid to talk to him.

He pastes messages on my computer,
messages I could not understand.

Especially the one telling me to go with him
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon a table.

Mornings, just as I am waking up,
he opens the door and throws the keys at me.

Quietly, quietly,
when he tosses and turns in my bed,
I leave the house and go about my business.