Connected
He sits there in the corner all alone,
Absorbed in reading the latest text,
The most amazing fun he ever has,
Almost better than even having sex.
He can’t hear what I’m saying – he’s too far gone:
His social manners are quite uncouth.
His dearest object is his smart-phone,
His only worries are wi-fi and Blue-tooth.
He always likes to be connected:
To be abandoned would cause a frown,
So he texts and tweets and emails,
In case he misses what’s going down.
He’s got all the very latest gadgets -
Wireless hardware, and some software apps.
There’s nothing he can’t find out, or look up -
In his world, there aren’t too many gaps.
He aims to be online completely wireless,
Accessing his friends and data on the move,
Reporting on his every whereabout,
To let them know he’s in the groove.
You could be talking and he wouldn’t hear you,
He’s engrossed in looking at Facebook -
It’s as if he’s not really with you,
Just as if he couldn’t give a fuck.
His skin has assumed a ghostly pallor,
And his finger-nails are turning green.
Unearthly shadows flick across his face,
Reflected from his i-Phone’s tiny screen.
His brow is furrowed in concentration,
As he reads what’s recently occurred,
Crouched over the device within his hands,
And his fast-texting thumbs are blurred.
He’s terrified he might lose his signal,
Or his life as a connected man,
The phone he’s clutching, and frequently touching,
Just two seconds is his attention span.
Each incoming message holds promise,
Of some earthly contact electronic:
As if it’s asserted that he’s not been deserted,
Though his responses are mostly moronic.
His hearing has almost
deserted him,
His eyes are hooded, his jaw
it hangs slack.
He’s not really with us here
in the room,
As he sits there emailing at
the back.
Yes he’s got to be Mister
Connected -
His concentration must be
concerted,
But one of these days, he’s
gonna look up,
And find himself totally
deserted!
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