A Name. Poem by James McLain

From the same whiter cloth of yellow flame,
my name has worn me out.
When time it's hand then stops and tells, my name.
From anywhere but there, can come a name.
Names don't come calling and asking parents, why?
Fathers and mothers then call to each one child.
Stacy as a piece of work and art before he grew
and I want to give to them as well, before I got.
Why does 'Bobbie' and her husband or anybody else care
whether I name my daughter, 'Caroline' or
a man name, like 'Charles' for my son, to go by?
Himself, I am and always was will, always be...
that name is know to all whom read....
some names...you always know......