It really isn’t my place
To propagate feelings of disgrace,
But witnessing so much repetition
I find myself in a vexed position,
Seeing how you walk alone
Talking on your mobile phone,
Infant eagerly skyward gazing,
Nothing yet affirmed in mind
So seizing anything they find
To solve a puzzle quite unique
Long before they learn to speak.
What they feel is what they go by
Passing underneath the sky,
Every ounce of expectation
Waiting for your facial expression.
Maybe just a word or too…?
No context, no obvious social clues,
Just the sight of you, amused
By some secret communication
To which you reply with no explanation.
I get how silly you might feel,
But how come it’s OK for you to reveal
Every intimate detail of life
To the man in the street,
The world and his wife,
As you overlook this tiny person
Busy exchanging an edited version
Of a life completely beyond his ken
Exclusive to your Mobile Friend?
* Walking to town, successively passing young mums pushing tiny babies in prams along the pavement, each one with a mobile phone squeezed to one ear by the shoulder and laundering all for England and St George.