Name

Call me Ishmail and Moby,
and Dick and Tom, not Harry
Harry was my father
and it still reeks of whiskey
and a hollow house
that silence settled long ago.

Actions speak louder
than lips, and a tongue
is more at home
with a partner, not alone
to tie itself in ribbons
and forget just how to speak
a mind so full of trouble.

Nobody knows Jack,
or Jane, or just what your
mother used to call you
before she lost her head,
or what you have become
or just what you are,
and are not anymore.

But you know that a child
is all that is left,
with the rest being
shades of gray, that fill

A book lost in translation.