What’s Your Name?

she asked over and again. “I want to play a game.”
“I want to play a game.” “What’s your name?” There was
a ****** in her eye the size of Madison Square
Garden. And a 911 urgency to her pleas. Mother nowhere

in sight. Her tangled mustard hair clung to her head
like overcooked spaghetti flung on the wall during a
a spousal fight. She demanded the use of my chair, as if
there were no other ones without warm bottoms planted like

pumpkins in this garden patch of a library. I got up
and helped her find a game on the computer. I called up
a few. She pointed to Dr. Seuss. But I had to go. I fetched
the librarian for her. As I was packing, she stood

up and asked, “what’s your name”, looking at me
through eyes tinted with honey. Sandy, I said. “What’s yours”
I asked her. She told me she forgot. This disheveled girl
knew not who she was. But she knew exactly what she wanted.