It was the angle of his hat;
a hat bought in more youthful days
when buying jaunty loden was a laugh.
But this was not that hat,
this was not that laughing man.
This was some other,
just as once a pair of wind-swept shoppers
under a familiar umbrella
made me utter long-forgotten names,
when, of-course, their presence
was not possible.
Sometimes the glimpse of a yellow shirt,
tweed jacket, mottled scarf
can give my still bruised heart
a stricken lurch.
Some ghost perhaps? No -
just a doppelganger.
A doppelganger with no knowledge
that he is one -
or that his presence has become
the shade of someone past -
for a brief moment.
Just a brief moment.The
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