Exuding clouds of scent, the woman ends
her call. With lacquered fingertips, she strokes
the surface, caresses the faces of friends
searching for updates. Finding some, she pokes
for more. Beside her on the train, I squirm,
resent her distance as she absently hums
to cold glass. She may be set to confirm
contacts on Facebook, send warm tweets to chums.
Will they see them in the daily deluge of links?
How many followers know her fragrance
as I do? She’d attract more eyeballs with winks
if she’d just lift her mascara-framed glance.
If our eyes did meet, perhaps her touch
might stir response in me no phone could match.
INSTANT NOODLES 