Apple

T-shirted angels
almost cherubs
they’re so young:
last spring they donned royal blue,
today, gunmetal gray.
A gigantic white apple
with one bite removed,
(on loan perhaps
from Adam and Eve)
is the only signage in sight.
Pimpled, tattooed,
wool Marine caps
covering dirty hair,
pierced dimples,
stretched earlobes,
expanders made of tire rubber,
they are tethered
to the planet
by white wires
and Bluetoothed phones
held in hip holsters,
sacred headphones
dancing
with black-screened tablets.

Clustered in groups:
the greeters,
the triage team,
the teachers,
the sales force,
and lastly,
at the far back,
seated at the longest table,
are the Geniuses,
forever patient
and polite,
Kool-Aid sipped in the back,
they attend to us:
the rattled and restless
customers of all ages and races
barely keeping it together
as we wait for salvation.
Addled and worried
we bring hard drives
and keyboards,
languishing batteries,
screens cracked like
medieval tiles,
data begging to be migrated.

To Apple,
our modern-day Lourdes,
we carry ailing hardware,
disabled software.
We are pilgrims
hoping for a miracle.
While the Geniuses
perform their magic,
the sales force
pitches AppleCare,
an off-site grotto
you can call
at any hour for help,
guidance and prayer.
Problems solved,
we exit this iconic mecca
feeling improved,
like better people.
We go out into the space gray day
fully encrypted,
authenticated
with enough bandwidth
to resume
our 21st-century lives.