Plug in, Disconnect
She hits the shuffle,
rests the sound above the earlobes
and walks the sidewalk.
She absorbs the people with one sense
through her eyes, but does not hear.
[I enjoy the creative process,
dumping words upon the page in a
mad rush to make imagery.
But I rarely like the result, am
embarrassed to have others read it
and make no connection with the thought
I was madly pushing into language, but
actually fail to achieve.
Mix in the fact that I am writing while
doing the routine of life – like cleaning the bathrooms –
and the message is garbled with the day.]
He drops his teenage body into the lounger
and hits buttons on the remote,
the four foot screen glows with
a shock of moving colors and sounds, owning the room.
He floats into the picture, the room disappears,
and neither parental entreaties nor the phone
can break the disconnect.
[The morning caffeine is wearing off,
the keys do not jump like they did an hour ago,
and my daily calendar calls me for its next deadline.
The metaphors and images wane,
drifting out of my reach, and I fear
the failure of the story. How do I jump
the picture from my mind to yours?]
She logs into her account, somewhere in the ether,
and exchanges electric greetings with friends,
who could have spoken with her at school
just this afternoon;
she re-attaches to the game, just where she left off
last night, and spends the next three hours
living in a flat, colorful, violent world.
[Two bathrooms cleaned, one to go,
probably should turn down the music
that I stored on my portable player, and
piped through my son’s larger stereo system
so I could hear it all over the house –
the one with four bedrooms, three televisions, two computers
and plenty of sustenance in the kitchen.
I might miss my wife opening the door as she returns,
or the phone ringing with the terror of lost children,
or the muffled cries of poverty in the hearts of millions
who I do not see.]