she stops in line

stops feeling time

memories triggered

by banal associations

 

decades crash

into each other

staring at moments

embers of a fire

 

just like A.I.

it’s all simulation

everything said

scripted autopilot

 

while the music haunts

her pretty little head

nine, nineteen, or ninety

she can’t feel the difference

 

it has a weight

off the scales

she runs a card

and now she’s driving

 

automatically by the nerves

in the back of her spine

the images all come

flooding back