Drip-Fed

The feed refreshes like a mouth that learns
to open cleanly, quick, without a sound;
a thumb conducts the choir of small returns,
each mercy shaved to fit a smaller round.
We trade in shocks that keep the lights awake,
in outrage salted just enough to sell;
a million little dawns we never make,
one endless noon that rings a private bell.
The good arrives already pre-forgiven,
the bad accrues a credit we can spend;
we live as if the sum were all we’re given,
and scroll until the numbers call it end.