#32. Gate, Attempting Something Else.

The gate has been trying to confess
for weeks.
First it claimed the motor was tired.
Then the card reader had lost conviction.
Then the central unit
no longer recognised the hour.

Each update arrived
as a minor truth,
delivered with the calm of one
who believes the next sentence
will resolve the matter.

I recognised the rhythm.

Years ago, in a café
where the fan stirred time in circles,
inland, during the long rains,
I asked for a sandwich with ham.

The waiter walked away
as if entering a small myth,
returned to report the ham had departed.
Try cheese, then.
No?
Perhaps chicken.

Another pilgrimage,
a soft apology.
Something else was a mirage.

At some point
I stopped inquiring
and requested inventory.

He came back slowly,
as though carrying the results
of an archaeological dig.
Nothing to build the request upon.
The shelf was bare.
The bread, theoretical.

Some systems reveal themselves like this –
one missing piece at a time,
until the final disclosure
withdraws the premise.

There, where the rains
outlasted the roads,
absence made sense –
menus thinning out
like wall geckos
dropping small, startled tails.

Here, in a city
pleased with its reflection,
failure arrives
in punctual notes –
the machinery
quietly drafting
its alibi.

The geography shifts;
the choreography stays.
Places change their weather,
not their method
of coming undone.

The gate continues
its memoir of failing parts.

I open each message
with care now,
as if this might be the moment
it admits
it never meant to keep anyone out –
it had always wanted to be
a poet,
or a window.