By Sheenagh Pugh
Passengers on the move, not moving,
becalmed in a between place
intently into their palms.
eyes flickering, picking up messages,
the price of gold, what’s happening in Iran,
their faces backlit; they are no spectators
to a global exchange where thoughts,
like cash on a Baldwin Flyer. It’s off-key,
with static, we should hear a buzz
the sound this glow would make, that wells
into the room whose windows
only on our own reflections.
on the way elsewhere. Dead quiet, staring
They are talking with their quick fingers,
catching the latest news. They know
tomorrow’s weather; they scan the world,
but part of the play, tuned in
facts, rumours, insults zip along wires
this silence, it should hum, crackle
pitched just too low for eavesdroppers,
from a dozen tiny screens
are dark with winter, looking out
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