*Terms & Conditions Apply*
The algorithm sighs at 2 a.m.,
its breath made of late returns and half-bought lives—
screens still glowing like modest suns
in living rooms where no one speaks,
only scrolls—a digital votive flickering
beside the sink of undone dishes.
Somewhere, a mother mistakes the click
of a drop-down menu for salvation.
She selects “Other” from the gender menu,
yet can’t undo the years spent
as a placeholder in her own story.
A boy kisses his reflection
and uploads it to feel
something—filtered by saturation,
cropped by love’s in-app purchases.
By morning, the grass will be synthetic again.
Even birds know not to sing to drones.
And the man in line for coffee smiles,
because his therapist told him
“pretending is a form of progress.”
We are what’s left when the captcha fails.
*—The Clergyman*