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The Saturday poem: Smith

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by Michael Donaghy

What is this fear before the unctuous teller?
Why does it seem to take a forgers nerve
To make my signature come naturally?
Naturally? But every singatures
A trick we learn to do, consistently,
Like Queequegs cross, or Whistlers butterfly.
Perhaps some childhood spectre grips my hand
Every time Im asked to sign my name.

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