If my name were Dot,
I’d have it embroidered in red letters
inside a red circle
on a white blouse,
and I’d work at a diner
somewhere far away
like Idaho.
If my name were Dot,
I’d greet the regulars
and pour liquid happiness
into white cups with rounded lips.
Let me top that off, hon, I’d say,
because a good waitress
always hons her customers.
If my name were Dot,
I’d serve huge slices of homemade pie,
and the owner would scold me
because I didn’t charge extra,
but I’d do it anyway
because pie is love.
Especially coconut custard.
If my name were Dot,
I wouldn’t need a PhD in psychology
or a high-rent office,
and I wouldn’t have to fight Blue Cross
or have an unlisted number.
I’d prescribe meatloaf
for the guy who lost his job,
and no one would sue.
If my name were Dot,
I wouldn’t have to do SAT prep
or go to an Ivy League school.
And my parents would have money
to buy a condo in Florida
and go to early-bird specials
and play shuffleboard
and cruise to Fiji.
If my name were Dot,
I wouldn’t have to sit in traffic
and take meetings
and maximize profits
and think outside the box
and see my shrink twice a week.
I wish my name were Dot.
But it’s not.
Comments