They Have My Number

They’ve finally got my number.
Everything about me is now recorded….
Captured in the cloud somewhere invisible off-site.
In a hundred years someone will sit,
Punch a key or two to retrieve,
Find out how thick my waist,
Length of pants, size of shoe, boxers or briefs.
The record of my life will be like an open book.
 
They will not ask my ghost for permission.
No need to major in history.
My bank account; my health records;
The parking ticket I got seven years ago…
My arrest from protesting the war.
They’ll find the list of books I read,
Movies that I saw, registration for my car,
Who I spoke to on the phone,
My favorite kind of wine— (not Rhone).
It does no good to whine…
 
They’ll have photos of my house,
My dog, know when my neighbors sleep.
I’m sure they’ll read my poetry, my blog.
They’ll know you came online to read this poem….
 
But they will never recover me—
Though they violate my privacy,
Search the facts, the emails that I wrote,
Taxes paid, passport now expired.
Never will they know my inmost hopes,
My silent prayers, my tears shed only in the dark.
Never will they read the poems
I held within my mind but never wrote.
Though they may walk down long corridors
Wearing long brown shirts,
They can only wonder if I ever wore a skirt.

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