Power Poem by Taylor Graham

No matter how good you try to be,
you’re bound to be subpoenaed
sometime, for something.

What can you swear to
except blue sky?
What will you remember about
last Thursday—one
particular
lark-song in a spring
of so many larks?

If they call on the phone
can you be absolutely certain
of your own first name?
Better say “nobody like that
here, wrong number.” Perhaps
it’s not your name at all,
you were meant for another.
If only your mother had known

she’d have named you for the hint
of breeze that fills a sail,
bestowing the imaginary wisp
of power
that turns a ship
under fire.