It was the dream of naming—
long hallway,
       endless,
              white. . .
She was the dreamer—
       with a black dress,
              or maybe burgundy,
                     or perhaps pastel blue.
With her, beside her,
       two technicians,
              with clipboards,
                     pocket protectors. . .
Endless—
       doors,
       windows,
       vaults. . .
She thought of names.
"What is it," she would ask.
The technician to her right
       would describe it—
              its function.
The technician to her left—
       drawing on a vast catalog of data
              would describe it—
                     its composition, manufacture,
                     ingredients.
She would pause.
She would name the item.
"What is it?" she would ask.
"It's a multi-layered collection of gases,
gases which are essential for life.
Also it is light blue,
       but with occasional opaque clusters of water. . ."
and so forth.
"It sounds complicated," she would say,
       reaching into her purse,
       grabbing her cellular phone.
"Let's give it a catchy name,
something two syllables or less."
She flipped open the mouth piece,
and began punching numbers.
"Try: sky," she said, impatient.
"Works for me," the other technician would say.
"Oh, Harold. . . It's me.
       Look, it looks like I'm going to
              be tied up here. . .
Yeah. . . I'm going to be late."
She paused, as they moved down to the next item,
the technician at her left
       pulling the sash on the window blinds.
"Well, honey, I just can't do that;
it's an important job.
Look, I've been to upper-management already;
I've told them to hire more namers.
Well, you know the situation—
we've got a back log—
for example, this morning, the first item was something
       I ended up calling
Deoxyribonucleic Acid. . .
turns out this is the essence of all life.
I can't back out, Harold,
I'm a mother.
I must name these things.
       I'm a namer. . .
I'll just be a little late. . .
Please don't be angry with me.
Now they want me to name a type of cow. . .
I'll see you later. . . love. . ."
The phone-call complete,
       she is crying,
              helpless.
The cow in the room beyond—
       chewing cud.
"Ang-er. . . Ang-el. . . Ang-em. . ."
She toys
       with the building blocks of language—
she is a namer,
a mother,
a giver of life
in the dream of names and naming