I thought about naming you Michael, my mother said,
like I didn’t have enough problems already.
Michael—a name I’ve never cared about, but now
it’s growing on me, it’s starting to fit, the name
of the person I might have been, the other person,
the better person, more popular in grade school,
smarter in high school, the ladies’ man, the leader,
the athlete, the star of the school play,
who, having quickly outgrown “Mikey” and “Mike,”
was Michael to everyone, Michael in the parking lot,
Michael> at the dance with the girl in the dazzling dress,
Oh Michael, Michael, in the car making out afterward,
Michael on the college entrance exams, with the test scores
to get me into any college, Princeton, Cornell,
Michael on the job applications, Michael on the resume
in 16 point bold, right up at the top—
Michael on the paycheck above an impressive number,
Michael on the marriage license,
Michael on the deed to the house, Oh Michael, Michael,
in the passionate nights in the queen-sized bed,
the prom king wed to the homecoming queen, everyone’s
success story, Michael the dad of Michael Jr. and Michelle,
Michael retiring, rich and successful,
Michael who kept his full head of hair turning white,
Michael of dignity, wise in old age, sharp-witted to the last,
Michael dead of natural causes, Michael on the stone.
But then, my mother said, I went with Jeffrey. I don’t know why.
And so the future was fixed at the start, where it all went wrong.