Inventory of Things That Ought Not Be Trusted

The lift knows something.
It hesitates at Floor Four.
Not superstition—
administration.

A man in a fluorescent jacket
declares himself temporary.
He's been here seven years.

Receipt in pocket.
Pocket in coat.
Coat on chair.
Chair making decisions.

The pigeons convene
with all the confidence
of middle management.

Someone says "progress."
Someone else laminates it.

The radio coughs up experts
who explain rain
to the wet.

I keep a list
of approved disappointments.
It's updated hourly.

Machines applaud themselves.
Humans queue for instructions.
The queue breeds another queue.

Don't mistake movement
for escape.

The streetlights blink once—
a memo,
not a miracle.

Tomorrow arrives
wearing yesterday's badge,
asking if anybody noticed.

Nobody answers.

The vending machine hums on,
promoted