The Other Guy

My mother’s hip is acting up again,

she calls to talk about the wind and rain.

She tells me how they almost called me Silas,

before the world turned cold and slightly bias.

On a receipt from nineteen-eighty-eight,

among the milk and bread and garden gate,

I was a list of names they didn't choose—

a different man with nothing left to lose.

That Silas wouldn't flinch when people stare;

he probably has better luck with hair.