The app blinks twice. A silence
settles between updates—lingering
like steam on commuter glass.
I forget my own name at the kiosk,
tap “Yes” to terms I haven’t read.
Above me, fluorescents flicker
as if decoding the soul’s fine print.
A child screams in aisle seven:
cereal or abandonment—one or the other.
Self-checkout beeps like a cardiac
monitor, shaking loose the illusion
we ever had someone watching.
Outside, a drone buzzes tenderly
like a bloated wasp of progress.
Its lenses are kinder than yours.
Somewhere in the cloud, my heartbeat waits
to be monetized—neatly, retroactively.
I once dreamed of touching a face
without scanning it first.
But of course, that was before
we learned how love behaves offline:
like a returned package—unopened,
still echoing someone else’s name.
The algorithm proposed to me last night.
—The Clergyman