Mobile In Memories
My phone’s a funny statue now,
A frieze, antique, a relic,
Who’s arrogant in silence,
Probably enjoying the respite,
Released from my hand.
It’s speechless and it’s faceless,
No usual miniature letter arrives and illuminates,
So it’s solid, quiet, and unusually untouched.
So I search for words elsewhere,
In the only other world I trust.
It works for a while, Mayer’s almost been read,
But then, on the page, a film clip begins,
Clattering and spotted,
Of a November coach and the back of your head
Which turns, and I’m fixed, as you look
Not at, not through, but into me.
I try again, I pick up Zarin,
But I find each word is left unread
As I wander happily through my head
To recall some words with amazing grace
That you once wrote for me.
I apologise to Greenlaw, her world looks so serene,
But my messy head wants nothing other
Than you,
So reading bows out nobly
And allows me to lie here and live within
Each sparkling memory.
And just as if my mind made it happen,
My phone wakes up and hums and screams,
And there you are, where you belong,
You miss and kiss me through the screen.
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