The goddess of my credit card is angry.
Her blue skin, so beautiful, glistens in a holographic haze.
Two days ago I dared to criticize new systems.
Impatiently, she listened, emitting a low hiss of flourescent rage.
Two days ago I was one day late.
Now, her tentacled arms flail like rays of noontime August sun.
They slink through miles of cables, delicately seeking, squeezing through fiberoptic lines.
Seeing the state of my checking account, she scoffs.
Chastened, I offer a 10-dollar sacrifice, tempting her to accept my tarnished coins.
In voice cold as crystal, the goddess of my credit card consents.
She is not wholly appeased, and who could blame her?
After all, the car she drives is new and fast, while mine is slow and old.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six