The turnstile clicks like a polite cough—
every entry numbered, borne
on a surge of Bluetooth breath and
state-sanctioned mascara. We wear
our names like borrowed coats,
a little tight around the shoulders
of who we used to be.
Morning is algorithmic now:
toast browned by preference,
emails preempted by ghost drafts,
a warmth in the inbox
like a misfired missile
landing soft.
I fall in love through app design—
typos tender as bare knees,
profiles brimming with best selves
disguised in mirror angles
and metaphysical dog pics.
Even the bots ache a little
when it’s past midnight
and the Wi-Fi hums
like a broken prayer.
You ask for meaning. I forward
a terms-of-service update.
And somewhere, an iceberg
changes password.
—The Clergyman
Category: The Clergyman