**Redemption Points**
The screen flickers like a conscience trying
to reboot—three updates behind, a face ID
fails again, but the system
knows my wrists by now, the arc
of my receipt-stretched elbows, tight
as the smile of a cashier who once
majored in marine biology.
There is a form somewhere to feel less
like an algorithm pretending to love tofu,
less like an accredited whisper,
more like a person who isn’t
always buffering. I fill it out in triplicate
beneath bottled light, type “none”
under hobbies and “voluntary” beside
my reason for leaving.
Such fine print—hope in Helvetica,
gratitude prepaid in licensed fonts.
Profit margins ache like muscles after dreams.
The past arrives in bulk, shrink-wrapped,
expires beside the frozen vinaigrettes.
Somewhere a god opts into push notifications.
And still, love checks its balance,
declines.
*—The Clergyman*