A Doppelganger

Do you mean that
my gaze is not a look
and my clothes decide
like a Delacroix banner
what will happen tomorrow although they
are quite foreign to me
hide thoughtful flesh?

Do you mean that
my yellow hair like
thrashing wheat hangs
wild over my forehead
and blue limpets peer
above my cheekbones
Rilkean discoveries?

Do you mean that
one fierce hand drags
by a thumb from my
appendix while the
other photographs old
ladies and my black
eyes roll and swagger
down Washington Street?

Or do you mean that
my head is too high
I throw my plate about
the restaurant talk
too loud and bounce
the balls of my feet
my own worst enemy?
Is it any of these my
friends you visit when
you think you think of me?