Practiced Loops

The realtor taps on the glass with her nail,

her patience is starting to flicker and fail.

Twenty-four pages of fine-print and greed,

more legal jargon than I’ll ever need.

The blue tip of the pen makes a steady click,

as I try to make sure that the ink will run thick.

I’m tracing the loops that I learned as a kid,

masking the person that I usually hid.

By page seventeen, my own name is a ghost,

a squiggle of ink that is failing the most.

It looks like a fence that is falling apart,

no room for a person, no room for a heart.