Sometimes when I see commercials or read articles about identity theft, I look over my shoulder, afraid someone might realize that me–the prose poet Gerry LaFemina–isn’t really the poet Gerry LaFemina. I just liked the poems of Gerry LaFemina so much that I, too, wanted to write as Gerry LaFemina. Sometimes, at readings, I worry the real Gerry LaFemina will show up, denounce me. Sometimes I think to contact him, suggest we read together. I try to imagine us facing one another in the auditorium, how both of us would stand at the end of the first introduction, go Oh! And then both of us sit down. Sometimes the postman delivers checks that I know are meant for him, brings lit mags with poems not prose poems. Funny how it is that he must get most of my bills, has seen the prose poems written by Gerry LaFemina, yet he hasn’t caught on.