I’m asked at once
to confirm the fact
that I am not a robot
but I am.
I don’t need to
wrestle with a CAPTCHA,
say how many
fucking squares
contain the form of
a juggling clown;
and who’s to say
he isn’t just a poser,
dropping the eggs
mere seconds after
this pic was hurriedly
snapped?
If I were human,
I wouldn’t give a crap
about the man behind the
paint, the stupid scarlet
ball upon his nose, the wig
that makes him look
ridiculous, an end-times
Phyllis Diller. Would a cold,
metallic carcass
point this out?
But because I’m just a
robot, I think about his
night that lies ahead,
washing all that shit
from his miserable
face, the grin he’s never
held past 6pm,
the single bed he
sleeps on—hard
as an iron door,
one that keeps him
barred from actually
living , a woman’s
wispy touch and
sincere smile;
falling in love
like a man of flesh-and-
blood will often do,
if his chest contains a
heart instead of Intel,
the winding green of
veins in lieu of wires,
wondering why
he has to prove
he’s really human,
when he’s in
the same position
I’m currently in,
that he’s been hurt
so very often
they should sense
he’s not a robot
from the salt of his misty
touch, the quiver
of his finger
on the mouse,
that he needn’t
click a box to say
I’m real.
Andreas Gripp
November 4, 2024
RF Image
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