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where virtual folk with cappuccinos
sit at tables like stone islands
in zen gardens, screen-lit,
and no one’s apt to step
into the raked spaces between,
to be nudged or hugged
at touch points in repartee
flying back and forth
on waves of beer-scented
breath on a sea of chatter
rather, they sit
tapping thoughts into capacitors
that are Bluetoothed into broadband
and bound for distant counterparts
in other states and hemispheres
instead of being uploaded to
another E-cocooned human
less than three feet away, breathing
to the left of the stacked biscottis,
tapping too, but longing for an
actual spontaneous embrace
Jim Culleny;
September 16, 2007
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