She said sign wherever there's an X

She said sign wherever there's an X

and my hand didn't need to think —

that signature, those looping flex-

ed initials, the practiced kink

of something I've been doing so long

it comes out automatic, smooth,

nothing like my name, more like a song

someone wrote for a different groove.

I looked at it. That little flag

of self, curled there in blue ink.

The ID next to it. The gap

between them bigger than you'd think.

She stapled something, slid the papers

into a folder, said July.

I pocketed the pen. The vapors

of toner in the air. And I

walked out still holding the performance

like a borrowed coat I forgot to return —

that signature, that small insurance

against being caught. Against the turn

in the conversation where someone asks

who I actually am and I

can't answer fast enough. The tasks

we give ourselves. The easy lie.