I guess the window on William closed a long time ago, I’ve just gone by Bill.

Been called Billy, but only to distinguish myself from the other Bills.

A littler Bill, that Billy: a smaller version of his dad.

Though like my dad and his dad before, none of us went by William.

Or when we did, it never was good—more the formalities of being served papers, something you’d hear in court.

Or read on a lab notice with test results.

The window on William closed a long time ago though I wonder how things might have been different for me

if I’d changed my name, my hair, or moved away: everything would be different then and

I’d be the person I always wanted to be, William or not.

Categories: identity, writing

Tags: poetry