Doggy-Style, Death, Dim Sum

Are all 40 people on this subway car
staring at the screen inside their hands
incapable of meaningful connections?
I understand some fear the light that skulls
our children’s faces but the glow is not unlike
the one that held me after school, held
my mother Like sands through the hourglass…
Her father, too, recalled being hypnotized by
radio green eyes of Zenith and RCA. Once,
smoking together in her cave after class,
a professor explained to me how people
had the tops of their heads sliced off
reading about Emma Bovary reading
a trashy novel by candlelight—portals 
going viral in the 19th century. Alone
means comfortable until boredom craves
doggy-style, death, Dim Sum, which we
stitch into tapestries, paint onto blank screens
of the closest canvas. Undeleted urns, mosaics
still portray nature, politics, pornography.
And in an ancient cave, the first room,
a wall where someone drew in blood
ochre charcoal ink, original & enduring
content was created: horned hominids,
the hunted, haloed flocks of empty hands
alighting directly in front of anyone who
cared to see. We’ve been staring into
our hands for 40,000 years. Now, a two-tone
alert signals when we get on or off, careful
to stand clear of the closing doors.