Blue Screen Cafes

Feeding Time

Feeding Time

What do expect, from texts
Just the usual suspects
How would that be
With life the fee
Head down
Smile or frown
Attention, intention locked
In a little box, a pox

Yet only letters in a row
Like any word we don’t know
Shorthand, perhaps
But often slaps
Is there reason to listen
Moments to make eyes glisten
Or living in the dark
Perpetual question mark

Intimates may read more
Though hardly amore
More where we are from
Constantly in touch
Not connected, not much
Work and school
May save us fools

Workplaces and classrooms
Not growing mushrooms
May saves us as a species
Ain’t no pile of steaming feces
Not perfect, but close
As interaction goes
To no-text zones
No typed words, no phones

What we can’t expect from texts
Procreation, you know, sex
People-filled rooms, blue-screen lit
Abbreviated meanings, no wit
Unless we join tighter than a suture
We may have no future
Till blue-screen cafes gain respect
Where it’s ok to have sex, an text


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