A New Poem at Bat, Bean Beam

The Well-Adjusteds (with this post)

2011

You call me and you
call me and I answer. I
answer with the baby on the breast
or when I’m sitting in the dark
beside the cot while she sleeps,
the laptop on my knees. My knees.
The cold glow of the LCD screen
spins a shimmering scroll of emails.
You have too many emails.

You call me to read aloud your emails,
to read aloud my replies.
You can’t find your emails. You can’t find
the conversation history. You say
the email never arrived. You
tell me to tell you the gist of the reply
you say is on your screen. You
haven’t got time to read the message.
You haven’t got time to do your emails.

You call me and you call me and you call me.

2002

You sleep with one hand on the mattress
and one on your phone. You say

my phone is too old and too large.
You don’t want to touch my phone. You keep

your phone close to your heart while we are
sitting on the station platform. You check it

all the time to see if your friends are
sending you messages. I am your friend,

I say. You say, you know that, but you
are still going to check your phone. Once

I send you a text message while we are
sitting on the station platform. I am beside

you but not close to your heart. The message
says hi and calls you the nickname I have

given you and which you say you do not
mind. I watch the interest in your eyes

disappear when you see the message is from me.
You say, this is just the way I am.

2009

You keep your smartphone in your breast pocket
like a modern pocket book where you
account for us all. I see you slide it in
a single motion from where it rests to the

open palm of your hand. You hold your index finger
like a pen as you enter the information. The
information flies between our phones or
down the cable through this LAN that

regulates our relationship, our antagonism.
You are cheerful and polite and you have your
smartphone always. I see you in the corner of the room
at meetings, tapping with your pen-finger while

the announcements roll out, while hope rolls up
like a worn-out carpet. People say look, he is
playing with his phone again. Sometimes my phone,
silenced for the meeting, vibrates and I

see the message is from you, your phone, your
pocket book already slid back into the tailored
recess of your shirt.

2007

You text me from the bar when the first drink
arrives and every drink thereafter till the last.
We are always together, even when you are in
your cups. You text me from the taxi or from
the bus. You tell me what stop you are at and
how many minutes between the stops. You say,
fuck Riccarton, it is still too far away from me.
You text me when you cannot sleep or when
you get up early to go to work. You text me
in the downtime on the late shift. I am never alone
because we are always together, even when
you are at work. When you move in, we look
at our battered phones, side by side beside
our bed and we miss their separation, their
flurry of words and our love on the downlow,
our love in the dive bar, our love from first drink
to last orders, please.

Tagged as: bat-bean-beam, technology, work