Closing

The teller said Sir and I

actually turned around.

I thought there was a man

standing in the lobby, someone

with a lawn and a set of keys

and a plan for the afternoon.

It was just me.

I’m holding the pen.

The ink is black and the plastic barrel

is scarred from people’s teeth.

It’s chained to the desk

like it might try to run.

I thought this part would feel

different. Like a click.

Instead my signature is a mess

of shaky loops, a child’s drawing

of a name I’m still

learning how to wear.