In My Own Handwriting

They handed me the Sharpie at the door,

blank sticker, no instruction.

I wrote my name in capitals —

some kind of hand malfunction.

The letters slanted right, the last one wide.

I pressed it to my shirt and walked inside.

An hour of parking ordinances.

Someone's motion, someone's second.

My name sat there in capitals all night

and nobody reckoned

with it. Nobody said it wrong.

Nobody said it right.

The Sharpie smell stayed on my fingers

through the fluorescent light,

through the drive home, through the part

where I found it still on my shirt.

I peeled it off carefully.

Held it a moment. Inert.

My name. In capitals.

Going slightly downhill.

I put it on the counter.

It's there still.