Aghast I stood and beheld my name
spelled wrong – dear God! – again.
To you it’s naught but an oft repeated
joke, hardly funny anymore, and
I suppose I should invoke patience
and ignore it – again. After all,
what’s in a name?
I lied, said I bear no grudge,
don’t gnash my teeth, nor
pull my hair or sleep
with spirt unperturbed.
But this inharmonious consonant
that hangs around my desk
jabs me constantly,
reminds me all that is not right here.
I’m not sure who’s more stupidly
blind but here’s the thing:
soon a new schmuck will appear
and relieve misspelled me,
when I toss forever the errant “z”,
the day Susanne with her “s”
breaks free from her cubicle
and cares less.