8:30 A.M. Los Angeles County Courthouse

I left my name on the courtroom floor,

took a new one, fresh and awkward,

cobbled from my former selves—child, hippie,

yogi—rolling r’s and ringing i’s. Singular B

between first and last—let it mean whatever you want.

The judge declares me certified. Papers

are signed, stamped. Outside,

the morning fog is thick. It’s chilly. I search out

coffee, watch the barista scroll, with her black

felt pen, across the curved canvas

of the cup—capital P, I tell her, like Paris,

with an i at the end. The coffee’s hot, too hot

to drink. I carry it like a chalice into

the elevator, down to the garage, place it

in my car, in the cup holder, start the engine,

take a right out of the tunnel, head west

to work. I say my name out loud—succinctly,

like the judge did. Say it again.

It’s 9:20.

Traffic looks good for a Friday.