The Captcha

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A modern fable in verse. Wise Monkey Wrought scroll N.006, "The Captcha." The form was complete. One step remained. The site wished to confirm the applicant was human. It asked him to find every square containing a bus. The form was done, the button near, when, at the last, there rose a wall. The site, in tones polite but clear, required proof he was there at all. The proof, it turned out, was a grid, nine squares of someone's foggy road. A bus was in there. Or it hid. The corner of it barely showed. He ticked the bus. The site said no. It sent him traffic lights instead. He found them, eight, in falling snow. The site had further doubts, it said. The fourth grid passed him, more or less. The tick turned green. The form went through. He sat back, flushed with his success. He had been human. Now he knew. He was certified human on the fourth attempt. The easiest thing to be is the hardest to prove.