Those Who Wear My Name

First, my name was my father's.
My mother wore it, and then I wore it.
She has died, and he has Alzheimer's.

And then I became what they call a man.
My first wife wore the name. Mine.
And our three children.

All those who wear my name
are connected to me somehow.
Even though we are not the same.

My second wife wore my name, too,
and still wears it, like the first wife did.
But when I address her, I just say “You...”

And now, you get it. It's another rhyming poem,
I get sneaky about it, and try to make it
not very obvious, and the way things are going

one might wonder if I have anything to say, at all.
That's a valid question. I'll answer by continuing
to not say anything at all.

Let's see. Two ex-wives and four children
wear my name. I still love them all dearly.
I don't fit in the world, and get shoved aside.

I don't mind it so much: one gets
accustomed to pain, and it just seems normal.
And I go on, with the faint distinction of others wearing my name,

wishing they all loved me, as much as I love them.
However, I don't express it very well. I hide it,
and write poems they will never see.