Traffic

by Terry Belew

Google my name

and a mustached man

wearing a Stetson hat

appears alongside a fifty state

map of my name.

 

I’ve never

been to Oklahoma

but it’s shaded red

because more of me lives

there than anywhere else

 

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When I turn

on a light switch

something shocks

 

me—maybe the wires

are faulty

or I’ve become as static

 

as an auto-filled

term populating

a search bar.

 

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The constant shock

of news

is like a cilice

reminding me I’m as flawed

as tomorrow,

 

as imperfect as a creek bed

after a week of rain,

an algorithm

brought to life

by sequences

 

and arithmetic,

a target demographic.

 

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No snow

last Christmas day.

 

My family exchanged

department store/Amazon

gifts and drank wine

so we could speak.

 

When I left

there was no traffic