ELIZABETH CROWELL

To the Robot I am Not

They will ask you to type
swollen numbers and letters.
This will be too hard for you
but the bloating of familiar things
-   a song that murmurs in my head,
single words like ambassador or moon,
is how I stay in place.
If you fail, they will give you
a different combination of letters and numbers,
this one less blurry, and you may feel
remotely human when you think that 
if you try long enough,  things get easier.

Please stay away from my house.
Do not stumble over the worn-edged rug
or listen to the news I leave playing
to scare the thieves who may break in. 
You will not be able to turn 
the wall papered corners
and find on the dark desk
the cell phone that has the verification code
you must type in to prove that you are me. 

I am out looking for the crosswalks 
in the squares of pictures
you may have before you.
I am wandering the roads
with the palm trees, the traffic,
the green street signs that I can almost read.
Where are those lines I can walk between?
The crossing guard is from an imaginary army,
uniformed with pleats and brass buttons, 
a hat that sits slyly on her head.
I love her the way you cannot. 
She does not carry a gun; 
she does not kill anyone. 
She blows the whistle on the gold lanyard 
and waves her hand in the air, to stop, to go.