Ghazal from an iPhone
Back underground after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge,
the afternoon commute is dead as my iPhone.
Like Zeus, Taylor Swift watches over Broadway
from a Diet Coke billboard. I send a picture from my phone.
A young punk couple argue in a graffitied booth
where you can find shelter from the rain, but no phone.
The marriage failed, but so what. Who lusts
after last season’s model of iPhone?
“Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, Please” is secret code
for “You Can’t Text, but You Can Still Stare at Your Phone.”
Brother, your voice is a balm for the scrapes of the city –
when I have quieter places to be, I phone.
Dropped Calls 