#42

Beneath the bas-relief of clouds hiding
the face of God, the building at the center of town
has a wall of black volcanic slate
that traces your movements as you walk past,

like shadow stitching, your outline follows
as you cross the town square on the way to work,
registering your path and monitoring the flow,
the movement of gray light stitching outlines your body,

until you come to the parade of small cubiles,
plastic voting booth with a plastic tube jutting
out, face-level for you to breathe into,
its plastic catching the moisture from your mouth,

pulling back and registering its DNA
on an assembly line of swatches of cotton
and plastic test tubes should it be needed later,
should it become necessary to replace you.