I’VE ALWAYS HATED my last name. Poe. Yes—that Poe. The one tourists quote badly and college professors worship. The one who died face-down in a Baltimore gutter with more enemies than friends. The one the city loves to claim and exploit in equal measure. People hear the name and expect me to be a tortured genius or at least a slam poet. But I don’t write. I don’t rhyme. I can barely spell without autocorrect.