The Inherited Initial

The clipboard is flat on the bone of my knee.

I write down the 'Lowell' and wait for the bite.

It’s a name for a man that I’ll never be,

a coat that's too heavy and never fits right.

My mother said 'sturdy' and 'strong' on the phone,

but the namesake died broke in a room near the shore.

The blue ink is bleeding, a debt I still own,

spilling out lines on the hospital floor.