DIARY ENTRY – MY TWIN

It’s the poise that gives him away.

That and the holes on the sides of the head
where he keeps telling me
he can feel the wings.

When I don’t look, he’s got a cigarette,
and when I look, a pen.

I know he steals from me and thinks I don’t notice.
I don’t believe he’s seen me steal from him yet.

I hate it when he cooks.
All we do is stand around the crucible and talk.

It’s cold. The flame isn’t even lit.
It’s as if he thinks we can chew on words, swallow them.

My twin has an unhealthy addiction to metaphors
and secret societies, and a compulsion to not act
on anything.

I know he’s scared of ripples, and I would like
to look at the river.

You’re a retrospective minimalist he says.

You’re too respectfully modernist is my answer.

We meet every week or so, talk about
books we should read.

They’re the same every week.