Kevin

Kevin, it wasn't a man, it was me,
or maybe it was my aunt, who wore a green suede skirt;
whoever it was, you didn't get a breadfruit—
it was goulash, all paprika and fire.
The donor didn't know when you'd eat;
you were completely grateful and reliable.
But your name wasn't Kevin, it was Dirk,
and as you left you said,
“When Calvin was born, Chaucer had only been dead for 109 years.”