And now the word slips in, a hand
down the rough blue of your back pocket,
a gaze that dawdles for too long.
All that you want are the silent moments
between a bank deposit and
the sun-slapped leather of the driver's seat,
or during your stroll down city square.
It is the first word to the phone:
now you know the catcall, the snapping
flag in a hot wind, emblazoned
with that Southern cross—anything of offense;
it is the open door
you did not ask for, the courteous
nod that builds a society, joins
a hand to hand. The hand:
a wave that means you are a dog,
obedient and servile as the woman
in your newest phone, knowledge navigator
that can compass the earth—
its every mote and detail—
as some asteroid belt around the sun, 332.
Hi. An affront,
a coil that shrinks the difference
between us, the million miles
of distance: voice to heart,
reason to brain, to our collective consciousness.
Good day. A smear campaign
against your worthiness, two
to greet, to gr