There's a shortage of wheelchairs tonight.
Someone beat the algorithms,
But they soon enough will win again,
As if daring us to be human.
Better to be in pain than waiting,
They always say, as if their wager
Could be construed as a phrase...
Only dumb numbers seem to know us.
No other method has worked
To factor in the perversions
Of doing things because we can.
There's a certain percentage
Who won't inhabit the set.
But that too can be recalculated,
Brought to the keenest whisper of truth
But nothing more: No prophecy
Or greater meaning, just the ever-
Present light of probability
Folding in upon itself --
Who we are in essence
As external.
