I took my shirt off outside
in November this year.
The tropics shift to Iowa,
and the whole place smells
like ammonia. My dad still
has a flip phone. For him
Google means a hundred acres
north of town, blessing
the region with its 27 jobs.

I have scraped food into the bin
and been wounded by the mouths
which would open for it.
Terawatts were not taught
in these rural classrooms.
Now, every photo I've taken
resides in the cloud.
My computer coughs pixels.
We are chained to the caches.