027

027

I  change my name every time I go to Starbucks,

the letters constantly shifting in my head,

my mind twists and is in constant flux:

my imagination is a nation of the undead.

The green stalks from the brown below

push themselves through coffee tops,

reaching for something in the undertow

of last season’s dead crops.

A cardboard cover hides the stars

and is branded with some other name

as it sits in its holder in my cars

putting my certificate to shame.

I lie to those who write history

to keep my true identity a mystery.