Keep In Touch

Write to me – a letter
because my phone has died.
Or rather, I killed it.
It was killing me,
demanding every second of my time
(it is my time-keeper),
interrupting my every thought
(do I think anymore?),
throwing me into oncoming traffic,
ongoing traffic.

I am no Monroe; I wasn’t built
for the lights (nor was Monroe),
and it was pushing me onstage
in the middle of the night.

I am in a state where guns
are law and my finger is on the
home key. When it’s not,
and I’m not home, I am lost
in the woods, lost to the world.
The lost generation was lost
in thought, and we?
Are irrevocably found.

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