Jonathan Moya vs Jonathan Moya

Jonathan Moya vs. Jonathan Moya

I know this will happen one day—

I walk into a diner with my wife,
during the Costa Rican stopover
of our South American cruise.
The waiter says, “Table for Moya?”
I say, “Yes.”

Another man stands up.
He says, “Si, aqui.”

We stare at each other.
Same first name.
Same last name.
Same spelling.
He has two middle names.
I have just one.
Different heights, age, physical features.
Other women find him sexy.
My wife finds me sexy—
if I suck in my stomach.
I know who the clear winner is there.  

He’s the soccer player from Costa Rica
with 123 career GOALS!!! 
in a fifteen-year career.
He’s got calves of steel,
an official YouTube fan song video 
done by a 20-year-old Korean super-Moya-ite,
and a net worth two times mine.

I’ve got an iPhone with  
1.803 poetic masterpieces on it,
a following of 468 on All Poetry,
two non-critically acclaimed 
volumes of self-published verse.

There are no extra tables available, so
we decide— Moya to Moya—to share one.

He orders carne, pollo
a starter of empanadas. 
two granizados to drink it all down,
and gives the waiter a 1000 colone bill 
to buy three frozen trits 
from the next-door bodega.  

I order only food that I 
can easily translate from the menu,
since my speaking Spanglish 
is no bueno. 

I know him.
I've googled my name 
a few times before 
and his is always 
the top result.

He has no idea who I am.
He has no need to know himself
in the insecure ways I need to. 

He looks at my paunch,
notices my monk's crown and cane,
facetiously asks— 
“Do you play?”
He mimes kicking a soccer ball
with his hands,
scoring a GOAL!!!
between my wife and mine
drinking glasses.   
 
I say I write.
He nods—
thinks that must 
be some stupid gringo sport—
totally lacking in finesse
that kicking a soccer ball demands.

I ask if he reads.
He says only contracts.
“I live to score only GOALS!!!”

I imagine we switch lives for a day.

He attends a poetry reading.
He falls asleep during the enjambment.

I joined his team for practice.
I trip over a cone and apologize to it.

We both get interviewed.
He’s asked about GOALS!!!.
I’m asked about— IDENTITY???
He says, “Score.”
I say, “Depends.”

Later, we sign autographs.
People ask who’s who.
We both say “Jonathan Moya.”
Nobody’s satisfied.
Someone throws a soccer ball at me.
Someone hands him a chapbook.

We leave the diner.
He goes back to the stadium.
I go back to the page, wife, life.
We don’t say goodbye.
We don’t need to.

We already know the name.

We both know
where our 
GOALS!!!
lie.