Ping Ping

First the search.
For the empty space,
The safe space, where legs don’t stroke, where
Elbows need not beg forgiveness, from
Eyes that have tectonic resistance to meeting.
The space amongst the pigeon-holed mannequins.

Silence is the order of the day,
No one bought a ticket to speak.

Inside ear bud tuned worlds,
Lives unfurl,
In silence.

Silent, like a jury in waiting,
Pox clinic waiting room silence,
Afternoon detention quiet,
Dental surgery hush observation.

We know we are here,
But refuse, refuse point blank
To recognise each other,
On journeys only disturbed by the ping ping
For stops passing by.
For departures,
For new arrivals,
For struggles with pushchairs,
And unsteady pensioners with heavy bags.

And by extra-terrestrial interference
Crackling through the Internet.

In the silence site,
The universally connected,
And totally disengaged.

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