Bird’s Eye

The clerk is leaning over the counter,

his finger smudging the screen where a version of me

is reaching for a liter of seltzer.

I am a collection of gray squares and sudden jerks,

a flickering shape under the digital clock.

The white date-stamp numbers pulse across my shoulder,

counting the seconds of a Tuesday I barely remember.

From up there, I look like a man who knows exactly

where he’s going, though I know I was just looking

for the cheapest bread on the shelf.

It’s strange to be caught in the act of being nobody,

watched by a glass eye that doesn’t care about the heat

or the way my shoes were pinching the whole time.

I’m just a ghost in a jacket, recorded in low-res,

waiting for the frame to skip and let me go.