Shelby Poulin

STEW

I am the over-heated,
worn-down
piece of technology
searing your skin.

I fail to meet demands
and the whole world
buffers—
for that,
you rabidly smash
my keys
with your palm.

Once, a while ago,
an English teacher said
you have an old soul, but
I am running out of excuses
in a sharp
square-
edged silicon
world.

My calendar juts
abandoned from a trash
bin. My bones aren’t built
for the space-age; I’m busy

tasting red licorice and sorting
with curious buds the cherry
from synthetic
sweetness

finding my soul
unsheathed by one bird
chiming off a mathematically
perfect song

watching
the yellow orb
of a pendulum light
sway in the air
conditioning
like a planet rocking.