by Timothy Hennum
Oh how shiny she sits,
a cord thick as my wrist dangles from her hip.
Oh how silent she moves,
her screen—flat as a flag—glows bright as the moon.
Perched behind her wheel, parked and alone,
I scroll through their tweets and scowl at my phone.
How easy it would be to delete my account;
to push a few buttons and finally be out.
But what about her?
Now these smooth lines, this warm screen, her sweet purrs
do not bring me joy.
And no longer can I look at her, her screen a decoy
mounted to that dark dash, that inflated hood, those obnoxious rims,
and not think of him.
Oh how shiny she sits,
a cord thick as my wrist dangles from her hip.
Oh how silent she moves,
her screen—flat as a flag—glows bright as the moon.
Perched behind her wheel, parked and alone,
I scroll through their tweets and scowl at my phone.
How easy it would be to delete my account;
to push a few buttons and finally be out.
But what about her?
Now these smooth lines, this warm screen, her sweet purrs
do not bring me joy.
And no longer can I look at her, her screen a decoy
mounted to that dark dash, that inflated hood, those obnoxious rims,
and not think of him.
Timothy Hennum is a writer and a physical therapist living in Minneapolis with his wife and two daughters. His writing has appeared in Your Fire Magazine, Intrinsick Magazine, Gear Junkie Magazine, and the Minneapolis StarTribune.