Kay Hassan
The city hums, half-present, half-ancient.
Someone edits the lights
into a better shape.
My hands remember a screen
more clearly than a face.
I scroll for tenderness,
find only loading.
Memory is a remix —
who said what,
or did the algorithm dream us all?
Still, a voice leaves a trace:
"I was not here, ma'am, " I say
“Ungrateful son,”
Somewhere, a satellite agrees
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