The Scripted Self

The delivery man is shifting on his heels,

holding the tablet like a heavy tray.

I try to make the glass feel what my hand feels

but the stylus keeps sliding away.

By the tenth page of the insurance claim,

my identity is a flat, gray wire.

I’m losing the shape of my own damn name,

watching the cursive tire.

I add a loop to the start, a sharp, vain hook,

a bit of theater I haven't used in years.

It looks like a signature in a library book,

hiding the fine-print fears.