The ghost of a cellular signal
stumbles into the music on the radio
and the mobile looks up at me
awaiting a call or a text.

But it’s just the callous network
stretching its digital muscles,
adjusting its grip on the connection,
heedless of the false hope it creates,
another jobsworth of technology.

The mobile takes it in bad heart
and sneers at me:

I’m left scalded, scolded and shamed
by the power it has over me
and momentarily regret
the intimacies we’ve shared;

I toy for a second with the idea
of breaking its back,
but I’m not man enough for that
and I return to the crossword
clueless, once again.

The sulking mobile
re-arranges itself on the sofa,
painting its toenails,
idly eating grapes and paging
through a chat magazine,
feigning indifference –

but actually, like me,
hoping, longing, wishing, aching:
both of us united yet again,
lost in textpectation.

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