Poem for Thursday -- First-Born Son

First-Born Son

The old man expects you
to name the child after him.

It's 1975 – you want the kid to be
a John or a Mike
even Anthony would be fine.

No way will you sentence your son
to something so unpronounceable
so school-yard mockable.

Even if you pack him
peanut butter sandwiches for lunch
and teach him how to swing a bat
he'll still be that kid
with the faggoty name
who never gets picked to play.


© 2011 Maria Scala