No One Home
July 25 2022
Signature required.
The convenience of home delivery
for the preternaturally patient
with time on their hands.
But my signature
is nothing much.
So really, what is there to trust
in this inscrutable scrawl
which could easily be anyone?
I remember grade school,
head closely bent
pen tightly gripped
one eye squinting,
labouring over my autograph
as though signing my life away.
Each cursive letter
carefully shaped,
a few extravagant flourishes
to make it my own.
And as I got older
how it decomposed,
degenerating
into a slurred featureless scrawl;
the novelty
of affixing my moniker
that had become a tiresome chore.
They say a bad signature
is an early sign of dementia,
the unsteady hand
the formlessness.
So is this the beginning of the end?
Am I entering my dotage?
Am I just too old to care?
A signature
to secure the transaction.
Turns out, I never got it
and assume it was returned to sender.
The post office,
a revolving door
where packages come and go
while never changing hands.
Merchandise circling the globe
getting nowhere fast.
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