Authorization

The teller slides the paper back,

her fingernail tapping the line.

She says the loops are a little too slack,

that the name I wrote isn't mine.

I grip the blue pen with the chewed-up cap

and try to remember the motion.

My hand is a bird caught in a trap,

fluttering without any devotion.

I used to sign with a flourish and pride,

a jagged edge for the world to see.

Now it’s just something I’m trying to hide,

the failing ink of being me.