The tethered pen

The marble is cold enough to ache.

I pull the pen, but the beaded chain

snaps taut, a silver rattle

against the teller’s glass.

I try to make the 'J' look wide,

a solid, wealthy sweep of ink,

but the metal tether jerks my wrist.

The line goes thin and shaky.

It doesn't look like me at all.

The last loop of the 'y' is a jagged scar.

The teller takes the slip without a word,

her thumb smudging the wet tail of the name.