There is always an other in the room with us
whether we know it or not
whether or not we are alone.

There are those we know;
our mother,
an ex-girl friend
from long ago
who still haunts our memories
whom we’re never able to quite forget,
and that teacher
from that time in class
whom we’ve never have been able to forgive.

There are those we don’t know;
the unknown soldier in the faded photograph on the wall,
the homeless man that once slept in this room,
or the man
who died of AIDS
that no one remembers.

There are those we seek to know
Elijah, Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus.

Then, there is the other inside of us,
the other we seek to deny or kill off,
our greed and lust,
our desires for earthly goods,
that nice watch that man is wearing,
our desires for physical pleasures,
as we look at someone attractive.

It is hard to write in the voice of the other,
those we remember, those we repress,
and those we seek to serve.

Note: This was written for a poetry group prompt about writing in the voice of someone else