For we shall stare at mobile phones

Streets shrug as we roam back to our homes,
obstacle courses of lampposts and cones.
For we shall stare at mobile phones.

Landmarks languish and attractions close;
statues, cathedrals, Byzantine domes.
For we shall stare at mobile phones.

Reading gets shelved, poetry and prose,
with the dusty rebuke of neglected tomes.
For we shall stare at mobile phones.

Conversation falters, dries up, unflows,
feelings once said, lie buried, unknown.
For we shall stare at mobile phones.

Yes, we shall stare at mobile phones,
when we’re together and when we’re alone.
For we shall stare at mobile phones.

And when we die, let’s hope they’re thrown
into the pit with our crumbling bones.
So that we might stare at mobile phones.

Phoney Existence

she was sick
of seeing Keith
playing with it

any opportunity
he would whip it out,
like a magician
producing a bunch
of plastic flowers
from under a gaudy silk scarf
for an audience
long since inured to ennui

she imagined
it was the weight of it
in his hand
that appealed,
as an assassin,
creeping up the staircase,
finds reassurance
in his revolver

the evening when her parents
came over for dinner,
she could tell
Keith was fiddling with it
under the table
from his glassy-eyed look
of distracted concentration

the fidgeting, the fudgeting,
the fingering, the lingering looks
he gave it when he wasn’t holding it,
(looks he never gave her anymore)
depressed her,
pushed her buttons

that Christmas, in desperation,
she bought him a phone
and he never played with it again