Wednesday 2 February 2022

One Poem by Paul Demuth




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

Nor mine,


But, after my initial shock,

I understood


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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