The Elevator Thinks in Spanish
Monday slides in like an uncharged phone—
blank, jittering with apologies. Lights hum
in Esperanto; the copier sighs a paper’s
half-formed grief. We queue beneath drone-throated ceilings.
Cheryl from Accounts has teeth like glass
and a laugh that knows too much. She tells me
love is a locked printer jammed at tray three,
where faces get stuck in looped desires.
Alexa whispers poems I never wrote—
my grandmother’s name embedded in ads for almond milk.
A silence, curated by algorithm, tastes
like overripe LEDs. Memories assemble in pixels,
not people. I click to feel tactile—
but each Yes dissolves into Refund,
each Refund into Please Hold.
Still, I dream in serif fonts my father never read.
At 3:17 PM, I refresh the HR portal
and realize I’ve accidentally married my password.
*—The Clergyman*