We are too much in the world Of distant sirens, each one racing To our homes. The plume of smoke arrests me; The shoe on the yellow-dotted line I passed, wondering how one limps home, Not noticing. The other night I heard the empty thud Of flesh and skin and then my cell was vibrating. I have a message from South Carolina, FB wants to befriend us; Twitter assails us; What's Ap pesters; E-mail harasses. We have more messaging orifices Than a Bell operator, And hearts beat faster with every siren, Every baby's cry. Night shades, ear plugs And sensory deprivation Will only heighten our anxiety. We're kissing urns and spitting ashes. Our connection falters.
A tip of the cap to W. Wordsworth, "The World is Too Much With Us."