Same colour, model, make as mine.
I've often rammed my key into its lock.
The owner, whose identity
I have no inkling of,
Might shrink away sometimes like me,
Afraid of being taken for a thief.
There’ve been a few car-thefts round here lately.
I once unclamped a note on my windscreen,
A declaration of undying love.
No mention of the sender’s name
But, after my initial shock,
And, spotting the identical Sedan
It must’ve been intended for,
Parked further down the slope,
I redelivered it,
Securing it under the wiper’s blade.
Tonight, from my unlit room, I see
The twins across the road parked face to face.
A segment of sky-blue is lit,
As my bonnet is suddenly bathed
In the headlights of the duplicate,
Whose driver’s face
Remains immersed in Night’s black ink.
At least, I think
That mine’s the one that isn't moving off.
Paul Demuth: 'Who am I?' is surely an unanswerable question for everyone but it's fitting, I find, that Whoever one is remains eternally enshrouded in mystery. I guess this poem is exactly about that.
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