Part of a collection of poems inspired by uncommon strangers
Flicking glass with cold fingers,
Though eyes are better
For communication.
She does not see me,
A girl in the red door cafe.
Words stuffed through a phone,
What does she see?
A job, a firing,
A husband, a wife,
A divorce, or friend
Maybe?
How lucky she is;
Billboard hearts
Detached and floating,
Strangled by wires,
Into tunnels and out,
Lost in heavy smog.
How lucky she is,
With separate minds
And no disease.
Only inherited adaptions
And fleeting infections.
Disconnections
Another missed connection.
Part 2 coming soon...
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