Her Phone

She’s staring at her phone.
She’s staring at her phone.
She’s unblinking, at her phone.

She sighs.
More stares.
More unblinks.

Much later,
She’s still staring at her phone.

We try to talk to her.
She mumbles “mhmm”, or “wha”.
Then announces, “Could it mean buttered toast!?” Oh, the disbelief. She types away.
And stares at her phone.

I stand, anomic. I’ve no idea what’s going on.
I’m out the door.
Then, panic.

Her battery’s almost drained dry.
At last, she’ll be off her phone.
She frantically unplugs my phone and plugs hers in.

She’s back on her phone.

Somewhere Else

You couldn’t get a seat at the bar. It was stuffed full of folks watching the big screens, the big game, all wishing they were there.

Around the bar, the gorgeous and the timid gathered at tables and chatted up acquaintances on phones, wishing they were together, while waiters dealt drinks and thought idly of the time they got to get away. It was a mob, shoulder to shoulder, full of noise and stink and life, and not a one was present.

Except for the old man eating an ice cream cone by the door.

He was present as hell.