My name is Johnston

A mimic poem.

My name is Johnston.

They say that once there was a John, who owned a town.

And “John’s Town” seemed a name good enough,

for any.

 

My father was born on a country farm.

Who raised ponies on grass hay.

Then traveled in trucks delivering chocolate cherries.

 

My mother, who took the name, took much.

The housework and the school responsibilities,

and the red van that drove us to class.

 

I, a female Johnston, may not bear the name indefinitely.

Or perhaps in lovely wedded compromise, may take both.

I suppose it’s ultimately up to me,

the chick.

the girl.

the virgin.

To decide whether I turn spinster or bride.

 

Maybe it was John’s Town; or perhaps he stole it, or died in it, when the town was new.

It doesn't much matter.

Today, It’s often mispronounced as “John’s Son”

and the real tragedy is that it’s far too complicated

to correct.