**Form W-9 in a Velvet Envelope**
The copy machine lurches like a dying ox
while Janet from Payroll discusses her nephew’s rash—
not metaphorical, though it could be—
the rash and the nephew are real, unlike
the performance review
you drafted in your head on the way back
from the vending machine that squalled when fed
a wrinkled bill, like mouths refusing
truths too convenient.
Lately, your passwords feel like riddles posed
by a malfunctioning oracle; what was your first pet’s name?
(Escape)
What street did you grow up on? (Delay it)
And your favorite flavor of time wasted?
Outside, the city simpers in LED
pallor—each billboard a sermon
on the warm logic of detergent,
each drone overhead
a whisper from the future
reminding us we are en route—
though never asked—to ourselves.
And still, you send a heart emoji
to the stranger you’ve been dating for six apps now,
unsure if love or signal is the thing
that gets lost in transmission—
until, one day, you click “I Agree”
and the screen flashes your father’s handwriting.
*—The Clergyman*