The LEDs in the elevator blink
like bored oracles. I count down
my existence in floor numbers,
each one a different kind of
paperwork. Somewhere, a server
dreams in binary—
dreams of me, perhaps, buying a
detergent with extra whisper.
The street this morning smelled
like melted batteries and
marriage counseling. Passersby
scroll their funerals in silence.
Headphones in like intravenous
hope. Who speaks anymore?
Even my thoughts have
auto-correct.
Love arrives via loophole:
a subscription I didn’t cancel,
a lipstick ad that reminds me of
your jaw in profile,
bleeding truth at 720p.
I catch my reflection in a
bank window and
it offers me a mortgage.
The sun sets behind the office park,
and I finally understand:
I was never the user—only the update.
—The Clergyman