It seems I died today
or my doppelgänger did:
the famous one
the one whose results I see
when I’m Googling myself.

The painter.
The old man.
The TV star.
The intellectual
the novelist
the Francophile
who re-pronounced his name
to best pretentious effect.
The Ways of Seeing dude.
He’s dead.

I didn’t do it.
Though jealous
of his notoriety
I have an alibi for the time of his expiration
– I’ve never even been to France –
and anyway
he was ninety.
I’m innocent:
I’ve got motive, sure, but had no means
no opportunity
though I’ll now grasp the opportunity
to become the Alpha Berger
even though our first names varied
and the drummer’s older
and the composer gets more hits than me.

Now, with the great man
the critic
the writer
the brilliant communicator
and intellectual speaker,
now that he’s gone
I have chance to become
what I always wanted to be.
At last
I can transform
into Jon Berger.