Feel the Apple Store: more than wet—  
even the glass seems to sweat, 
condensation curl like slow script 
down its spine.  
 
Shuffle through automatic doors.  
Wear your O₂ like a necessary ghost,  
tank small, insistent across your shoulder
like a vestment. Hear your breath, 
a mechanical psalm.
 
Carry your body’s hitch,  
its visible machine  
among many sleek brethren.
White walls thrum with youth.
The fluorescent cold a respite
of sorts, tables slick as bone.  
 
The aluminum children  
tap screens like monks  
illuminating texts. Sweat 
through cotton, cannula  
cling—plastic taste like a tongue depressor,  
Texture in your nose  
a hard warning. 
 
Recall the ability to stand
long enough to browse.
 
Watch a Genius blink, tap fast  
on a tablet-sized grief.  
Hear a man 
cough into his sleeve.  
Catch another 
spit low hate at the manager.
A woman lingers in summer wool,
fretting. 
 
You want to go home, too–to return 
to its familiar walls, the smell of smoke,
where just one breath turns so easily
into another without this tender tether. 
 
So lay your boss’s QR code  
on the counter—warm  
as fresh eggs.
 
A child’s scream–PLEASE!
 
So watch a receipt unspool  
like a scroll or banner.  
Say Thank you.  
You can leave into the heat.