She is a pale tired Texan
living in a truck with two
small children. Or
she is an angry pierced teenager or
part of a Nigerian gang.
Maybe all of the above. It seems
my name and address can be printed
on anybody's checks and drivers license.
The police don't care.
Neither does the bank nor the DMV.
Everything is covered by insurance.
My namesakes shop at Target, K Mart and Toys R Us.
Weeks go by.
The FBI says it is not their problem.
One officer suggests I change
my name, address and phone number.
I say, "But I want the world to find me."
He says, "It has."
In dance class, there is a new, young woman.
We watch each other in the mirror. I suspect her
of copying the way I fold my arms when turning.
There was a time I would have been flattered.
Now I want to know
what else she's got that's mine.
April Eiler