Hello My Name

They gave me a marker that belonged to Diane.

I wrote my name in her ink, pressed the tag to my chest,

and wore it for two hours like a second plan,

a version of myself that passed the test

of being someone in a room. I nodded

at the agenda. Voted on the thing.

Walked out into the parking lot and prodded

the tag loose at the corner, the small sting

of adhesive giving up the shirt.

A thread came with it. Stood up straight

from the fabric, thin and dumb and hurt-

looking. I stuck the tag inside the gate

of the car door, name-side up, half-curled.

Drove home with it in my peripheral view.

My name in Diane's handwriting. The world

outside the window doing what it does at two

on a Tuesday, nothing watching, nothing keeping

score. The tag still legible. Me, just driving.

The thread still standing. Everything still being

exactly what it is. Nothing arriving.