A panel of numbers
shimmer in the glint
of the overhead light
Numbers which could be meaningless
to aliens and animals
But to humans
signify freedom
That we rely on this list
of numerical code
is preposterous
Yet still
it is so
For the backbone
the door behind
is what some identify with
in whole
A soul’s opportunity
to shed itself
of material scrutiny
Can in an instance
be trampled
as if by a herd of buffalo
on the wheat-colored plains
And how ironic
those peoples
who hunted those beasts
did not exchange money
and surely not these numbers
Yet here we are
sliding our glimmering plastic
to feed clothe and perhaps
even travel
see the world
on a cadence of
digital emancipation
If it is so.
Busted Flip Flops 