Just your signature there she said

Just your signature there, she said.

She didn't look up from the form.

I signed it: capital letter, then a line.

A gesture. Something like a norm

I've been repeating for so long

I couldn't tell you what it means.

The second copy came out gray and smeared.

She handed me my set. The scenes

of my adult life, collected:

a line on a lease, a line on a card,

a line that once was learning to be something,

trying harder, working hard

toward an actual name. It got smaller.

Every year the line got thin.

She said have a good one, filed the form.

I don't know where the name has been.