Prying eyes peep over your
graying head, skeptically examining the
collection of cellulite creased between
sagging breasts and love handles you’ve been
nurturing since last Thanksgiving.
A misinterpretation occurs
when strangers read “Baby names”
illuminated on your MacBook.
But only you know the difference
between the development
of a character and a child.
Unfeasible decisions,
just as if nine months were enough time
for two people to pick the perfect name,
gambling letters for sounds;
Michael or William (Billy, for short)?
As if a lifetime were long enough
for the child to resent his parents for
naming him: Mike Rotch
But the risk of a ruined life reduces
to raisin-size when you realize
your character doesn’t like
bending down to kiss because he
feels like a giraffe locking lips with
a hummingbird he met on Capitol hill
(her heart still beats 1,260x a minute
for him), and it just so happens
her name is
Jill.
So you name him
Jack.
And they fetch a pail of water.
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