Neon letters on a screen
Like a conveyor belt, sliding
To the left

Show the people their destinations
As they huddle in bus seats, or
Cling to handles

Heads bowed in respect
Or embarrassment, examining their
Glowing touch screens

Fingers tapping intimately
Look, we don’t even need keys to
Express our words

A man with a freshly ironed shirt
Going somewhere that is clearly
Really quite important

One-of-a-kind fingerprints
Dance along the his factory screen, nestled
Inside his palm

Tapping, sliding, pinching,
Zooming, gliding, swiping, they
Touch touch touch

But his posture is disturbed
Eyes jump up as he flinches, when she
Grazes his arm

Just an old woman
With a lumpy orange purse, and
Flawless old teeth

She smiles at him in passing
He reciprocates quickly, just
An automatic response

Rather than speak a word
Eyes glaze over as busy fingers return to
Avoiding all contact