by Jennifer Ruth Jackson
In the evening, after everyone goes home,
the computer calls itself an artist. It houses
a world’s worth of painting, sculpture, innovation.
It guides the lovesick intern through her sodden
poetry. Did you mean forlorn? It sifts through
drafts of red ink, harasses Google for research,
and bookmarks every passing fancy. The computer
could be a doctor (Web MD is a favorite), but color
calls it to shake off drab, lab coats and create.
It prints its projects out of the gaze of bright-eyed
cameras and night security guards. The first of which
is chrome-dusted legs to fetch coffee while it works.