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.