Prove You Are A Person

My three-minute task was a simple reset,
A click of a button, a brief tech detour.
It is now after three, I am covered in sweat,
Engaged in a war where my victory's unsure.

It started so softly: “Your password, if please?”
I typed it. “Incorrect.” So I tried it in caps.
“Incorrect.” So I guessed with a feeling of unease.
“Your account has been locked due to safety mishaps.”

Suspicious? I’m sitting in oversized sweats,
With my hair in a bun, a sad, lonely sight.
But the gateway is blocked by a digital snare,
The dreaded CAPTCHA grid of algorithmic might.

“Select all the squares containing traffic lights.”
Nine tiles on the screen. One is obvious, sure.
But the pole of the light, by a few tiny bytes,
Bleeds into the next square, obscure and impure.

Does the pole count as light? If I click, am I real?
If I don't, am I deemed a mechanical ghost?
My palm starts to sweat on the mouse that I wield,
I click on the pole—and the gateway is closed.

“Please try again,” chirps the merciless screen.
“Select all the squares where a crosswalk appears.”
I click on the three that are easily seen,
But a smudge in the background awakens my fears.

Is that a crosswalk, a mile down the lane?
Or a glitch in the camera from days long ago?
Am I tested on vision, or losing my brain?
I skip it. The system responds with a “No.”

Now the images blur like a rainy monsoon,
A grainy old photo from some bygone year.
“Select all the bicycles.” That's a scooter! You loon!
I click on the checkmark, collapsing in tears.

“Incorrect. Please select all the squares with a hill.”
That’s a speed bump, you monster! I yell at the glass.
The cat looks right at me, predicting my will,
And judges me deeply for throwing a gas.

I click "Reset Email" to bypass the test.
A victory! Yes! Till the prompt starts to gleam:
“We’ve sent out a code to the box you possessed
Way back in Bush’s very first regime.”

I don't know the password to that ancient vault.
To open it up, a new question takes shape:
“What name did your teacher give her hamster? (Default)”
I can't even tell you what's on my tape!

I am exiled. A woman without country or home,
Denied my TV by a pixelated fence.
I stare at my face in the dark monitor's chrome;
Perhaps I’m a robot, lacking human sense?

I shut the computer. I'll read a real book.
Made strictly of paper. It doesn't ask why.
It demands no crosswalks, no secondary look,
It just trusts I'm human, and passes right by.