“Hello, I'm Micah, what is your name Sir?” After loitering unshaken, my palm blushed And returned to its pocket. The man responded “I don't have a name.” “Oh, well, what have people called you your whole life?” “I don't wish to be bothered.” And that bothered me. Not his lack of courtesy but his namelessness Were his parents really that indecisive? Maybe he has a name and just likes messing with people's heads Maybe his stone cold persona is a façade as he snickers on the inside knowing I'm trying To figure out how or if to respond Maybe, he's a junior, named after the piece of scum that left his mom Maybe he'd rather be called nothing at all than the name of the man who abandoned him Or body slammed him, or touched his private parts Maybe his name rhymes with some type of private part Maybe he's still traumatized by the jingle kids sung on the jungle gym Maybe he has a lisp and can't pronounce his own name right so he refuses to try Maybe he's been called everything except his name for so long that he forgot what it was Maybe he'd be quicker to answer to ba*tard, or n***a, or hobo, or bum Maybe he had some regrets and sees everyone as a threat, afraid of what we would do if We knew who he was, or what he's done But speculation is dangerous, so regardless to the series of events leading to his present State, this man claims to be nameless. And he doesn't wish to be bothered Nor does he bother to wish He just sits, hoping to be ignored, or, expecting to Because before I made an exit, he found me, and apologized for being so rude