Frame Rate

I’m looking at the screen above the beer cave,

where a version of me with a blocky face

is twitching in the corner of the ceiling.

The light is a dying buzz,

flickering fast enough to make the aisles

strobe like an old reel.

The credit card machine is holding its breath.

On the monitor, my walk is a series

of glitches, a stuttering, panicked shuffle

born from the jerky frame rate.

I look like I’m running from something

even when I’m just standing still,

waiting for the beep to tell me

I’m finally allowed to leave.