A Poem a Day (736): Track & trace

Track & trace

 
It’s track and trace,
the age of Big Brother,
every day on record.
 
Can you hear the bounce,
the standoff? Sweet
fermentation of echo.
 
See you smile. Sense your style.
No manufactured glances here.
Just the original, no spin.
 
Catch a scarf in centigrade,
wander pools of being.
We reflect in another’s art.
 
Caught in traffic you break solitude,
don’t need to engage.
Red light here, green there,
we’re all stuck on amber.
 
I admire your pearly cage,
embroidered as I am in my brick one.
I guess we walk the same stage,
you a little higher on your ladder.
 
I peer at stretchmarks,
a little sagging, prepare myself
for my final measurements.
 
We run the list.
Race the pack.
Double back for a rebound.
 
A little late-night reading.
Bed bugs chase the cover light.
I catch one in a jar,
hand it into reception.
 
A little water might suffice
unless you’re drowning in it.
 
Listen to the tick.
The tack.
The walk back.
A hit on the wall is a strike-back.
 
They’ll close you down.
Hit the blacklist.
 
So keep in line.
Stick to your lane.
 
I’d say sit on amber,
admire the flowers,
throw a bone to your dog.
 
We don’t discriminate.
They just want to bury you,
find you lacking.
Pin the blame.
 
If you fall asleep,
they’ll steal the wheel.
Take everything.
And move on.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 2, 2025