The Stranger
There’s a stranger in my house
I have seen him mope around
In some fuzzy bedroom slippers
and a faded dressing gown.
He somehow seems familiar
Though I cannot place the face
My memory retrieval seems
lost without a trace
Every time I see him
He is staring back intently
As if he too is searching
for a clue within his memory.
This morning he was back again
In a faded emerald robe-
You know, I have one like it-
Did he steal it, you suppose?
But that can’t be, I’m wearing it
I look up with a start
What a curse are full length mirrors
to a senescent aging fart.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Added by Poetry Lover
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