In the fluorescent hush of the 24-hour pharmacy
—where toothpaste dreams and razors hum quietly
behind greasy glass—Mrs. Anders folds
her loyalty points like origami grief.
A voice over the intercom insists
on salvation through seasonal markdowns.
Elsewhere, an app tongues the air
for my vitals, measuring dopamine
in likes per click. Each notification:
a small cathedral bell tolling
for the last version of myself.
At lunch, the intern reheats her misgivings
in a Tupperware gospel of quinoa and fatigue,
while upstairs, the CEO exhales
another strategy conceived entirely
in toiletiers and vowels,
armed with graphs that cry like babies
left in windowed conference rooms.
I wonder sometimes if my name
was a placeholder God forgot to replace.
But last week, my toaster smiled at me.
The Clergyman