If you love something
give it a name.
Think of Bluebell curled up on the couch.
Compare her with
the millions of nameless beasts
scavenging through bins
in sprawling cities.
Consider the difference:
she is loved; they’re not.
Imagine further a world
where people have no names.
Flitting anonymously
through lives of nothing,
no memory holds them
when they’re gone.
It doesn’t matter which name you choose.
You can call your cat Mavis,
or your car Abdul,
or your ballet dress Butch.
You could even call your first kiss Lorraine,
because things that are cherished
need a name.
I hereby christen this poem
Malcolm.
