Every day I take
10,000 steps. That’s what I am, now –
No longer analog
A leg, a foot, chipped
polish on the big toe
firmly planted on the ground with the heel
just lifted
as an afterthought.
Now I’m reduced
to a neon flashing number always on my wrist. Prettier,
admittedly. More exact,
all right angles and sharp edges
Fleshless, the kind of hard thing
that glitters endlessly. See how
this old-new world shines
and burns.
I don’t even know
what a poem would look like, in this decade,
I wouldn’t even know it if it boomeranged
in my face on some social media feed,
an endless loop
a hypnotic spiral, some
monolithic meme.
If it had a smell it would be burnt static
but of course nothing has a scent,
anymore.
A poem today is maybe
composed of GIFS,
or selfies of duck-faced celebrities pouting and hawking
the newest mineral oil facial mined from the clay
of some far-off
mountain. Extreme diets sandwiched
on top of body positivity and the false, matte
smiles of #sundayfunday.
Bold typeface, clean lines
the same
hard clock face on a smartphone.
If this poem
were an Instagram filter
it would turn the typed words into something rose-gold
or blue-hued, labeled after the names
we give our children these days:
Arden
Hudson
Amaro
Valencia
Something beautiful but nebulous
like the never-ending images flickering
across the touch screen, the one my daughter’s small
fingers swipe over and over, a story
with no meaning
that she wants, is hungry to understand
but can’t hold.
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