After sharing my poetry

at the literary salon,

I mingle with the crowd,

sign books, make small talk.

“Great work, Gary,”

the attendee says

mistaking my name

even as he presents to me

my own book to autograph.

It reminds me of the story

of the time Steinbeck was at a reception in a person’s home,

the host, gushing about how much he admired his work,

asked if he would sign his book,

rushing to his library and returning

with a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s collected stories.

Steinbeck reportedly smiled,

and signed with the other author’s name,

giving the reader what he wanted.

I smile at the reader,

sign “Gary” in ironic quotes,

wonder if he’ll get the joke later.

At least he has in his hands

the words I intended.