WHAT'S IN A NAME

We'd come from different places,
different worlds almost, and met
that summer of ‘66 between
terms and worked side by side.
He said my name was strange,

wondered where it came from.
Gladly, with a smidge
of semi-sinful pride,
I took him on a tour
of my ancestral tree,

then stopped. I need to be
polite, I thought, and with
no more thought than
that asked him about
his. He gave a sort of snort

and in a voice of laughter,
marred by just a touch
of bile, told me that his
name was given by the man
who owned his great grandparents.

I felt my face flush red.
I know I turned away
but can't remember what I
said. I hope I didn't speak.
I hope there was an eloquence

of silence.