By the third day of my vacation
I am nearing the end of reading my book*
(Unlike most others around me
mine is still printed and on paper).
I sit drinking black coffee, finishing a creole roll
and reapplying sunscreen to the top of my head,
where my thin grey matte is no better
against the sun than being completely bare.
The book is about numbers
and the mathematicians who have turned
into Madison Avenue alchemists,
promising their overlords that they
can turn you and me into symbols
and equations; that we can be sliced and
sorted into factors, primes, variables which can
then be adjusted, aligned, tweaked
all in the end really, to get to the gold.
It hurts me to think that I am
so easy to know; that even after so many years
of trying to create a self that could stand out
amongst angels, I could be so predictable.
A congregation of plovers drops in
again, just as I read the last page,
and I feed them the rest of my roll.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.
* The Numerati, by Stephen Baker