Four Copies

The first one was fine. Small. A little rushed—

something close to my name, the pen

already moving on. The second flushed

itself with a wider loop. And then

the third: a flourish under the last letter.

The property manager on his phone.

The fourth—I don't know—got better

at being a signature. Had grown

into something I didn't recognize.

It sprawled to the edge of the line.

A performance. The outsized

ambition of a name that's mine

only technically. Page one, page four.

I took the yellow copy.

Said thanks. Walked out the door.