What do you know?

My name.

Your name?

My name.

Do you suppose Eric

Is stamped on your soul

In indelible hand?

Or did Dickie and Sue

Pluck randomly from

A blue boys’ book of names?

The latter.

Is Eric then the germ

Of each thought, word and act

That Eric — yourself — enacts?

Unlikely.

Unlikely.

Maybe though I have a better name?

One that spoken explains my borders

And maps out my life to the last.

Without a doubt.

But tracing that name is like damming 

Time’s meander:

Hopeless, hopeless,

But what else can you do?