Master

 

Master

 

I thought I’d put

rows of seats between us both,

yet somehow she found me,

stumbling down our narrow aisle

and all the while

her iPhone in her hand

as though it was nailed there.

 

I’d trousered mine -

a hateful, vile oblong of data, chips,

microcircuits, other random bits

they shove in there to spy –

where it remained, detestable,

while we tunneled through

Al Asiri underpass.

 

She’d turned hers into a looking glass,

meantime, but she’s no Alice,

fingering tresses of hair,

pleased with what she sees there,

two evil faces,

smothered with hypocrisy.

 

Somewhere deep in her psyche

there are specific powders, a phial

in a drawer marked ‘E’

and bring them to me:

begging the pharmacy

keep sending, keep sending

but she will not change back.

 

She must put it away from her,

this appalling evidence,

and I have nothing but sympathy,

but it just won’t extend

because it’s will she lacks

and it keeps coming back,

has her on the rack -

from her pocket

from her handbag

from beside her on the seat,

even when she speaks, maybe eats,

she cannot lift her eyes to greet.

 

And, I’m thinking -

here’s our Victor upping mountains

from Chamonix to Montavert,

he’s watchful and on the alert

hobbling over the Mer de Glace

to lift some shadow from his face

and confront his demon.

 

And if she could put it down 

long enough to see him

she might say - for an after,

through her greasepaint and plaster -

you were my creator

but I am your Master.