He is Me

He looks like me but with a full head

of salt and pepper hair pulled back in a pompadour.

Instead of a lumpy head like a boiled ham,

he has a smooth mocha blemish-free face,

adorned with a full thick stubble beard that is somehow

both well-groomed and rakishly unkempt.

I can hear his voice.  It is not thin and reedy like mine,

but a sonorous and powerful.   

He uses the voice to captivate a crowd in the back of a

dark, tudor pub, on cold rainy nights,

a pint of bitter in one hand, words shaped into life

with the other.

And those words are beautiful and devastating. 

Yeah, fuck that guy.