LIFE Poem: A Morning in the 21st Century, by Clara Finley

It starts with a mocking mock
sound of metal clanging on brass.
With flicks of my lethargic fingers
I flip the 2D switches of my alarms.
Good morning, new and improved sunlight!
Thank you for this entrancing menu of options—
What mood shall I start with today?

Perhaps a playlist painstakingly curated just for me?
Existential dread doubtful quarter life crisis Monday morning.
Delightful, but maybe an audiobook, one recommended by
those girl-next-doors engulfing my feed.
Something romantasy with a dose of quirky heroine
and an aftertaste of patriarchal values?
Already checked out on Libby.

I’ll settle for a podcast—my finger finds one
That validates all my self-assigned pathologies.
A disembodied Millennial voice reassures me that
Beauty is mine for the taking, the claiming, the abusing.
But, to my chagrin, I feel no movement in my bones.
No rearrangement of my facial structures
Or resettling of my ribs.

How many inspirational Pins will it take for me to
Wake up one day with pretty privilege?
When will all that filtered perfection seep through the screen
And absorb into my irregularities?
Perhaps they can genetically engineer me to be
Captivating and impossible like a dire wolf—
This I ponder,
As I write an email with words
Suggested by a brainless, heartless, soulless, thoughtless machine.

I have not yet gotten out of bed.