The delivery man stands on the porch in the sun

The delivery man stands on the porch in the sun,

waiting for me to get the whole business done.

He hands me the board and a pen made of grit,

and watches me find a good place for a bit.

I hesitate there with the tip on the line,

to prove that the name and the person are mine.

I add an old flourish, a loop at the end,

a piece of a character I’ve had to defend.

The ink starts to pool in the belly of the 'g',

a dark little hollow where no one can see.

I hand back the pen and he goes on his way,

taking the mark that I’ve made for the day.