Notary

The loan officer is watching the tip of my hand,

waiting for the ink to claim a piece of the land.

I grip the ballpoint and I feel the weight of the debt,

as the thermal paper starts to curl with my sweat.

I sign my own name but I give it a loop,

a fancy, new flourish, a performative scoop.

I want to look solid, I want to look tall,

but the pen starts to skip and the letters look small.

It’s a lie in blue ink, a desperate, sharp scrawl,

hoping no one notices the crack in the wall.

I slide the page back and I check for the smudge,

waiting for the teller to give me the judge.