It means nothing,

a scrawl of a name upon a sheet

of type faced paper,

the songs upon it mean the world

but they could have come from

your own computer, your own stubbed-

out fingers creasing upon your ink dried

heart, then signed by the artist…

however…

pen written, the taste of ink on the fingers

of the flowering talent,

of the smile that comes with it for free,

two way mutual respect and admiration

and the surge of holding

onto the setlist, shaking as they dedicate it