Only...

I disconnect.

Cut the internet umbilical.

Feel the hot bulge in my pocket

cooling into plastic

and precious metals.

 

Bohemian Meg

would be horrified

at the implications

of “only connect”

today.

 

Disconnected? Free!

The fish-hook line between my lip

and touch-screen severed,

I can look around, upward,

smile at younger people

and bellow “bue’ dia’”

at the old and deaf

and smiling people

of the pueblo.

 

Ilusión is a long street

and Esperanza is a short alley.

As though dreams are long

and hope in short supply.

Virtud is a less than clean

cul-de-sac.

 

We dream or we die,

so my walk along Ilusión

is full of wist and wishes.

 

I turn into Esperanza

and this hope is short

but takes me into dirty Virtud.

 

And above the rubbish strewn cobbles

in hanging baskets, are riotous reds

of carnations and unknown yellow blooms

and behind a window is the first poinsettia.

Virtue is found in every dead-end.

 

My ringtone, an imitation bell

echoing Alexander’s invention

breaks the silence and as I

have no answers I make none.

I’m disconnected, today.