Homeless, frozen and robbed (both of its glory and cash).
I escort it carefully home, but it is soon sent to get flowers
and I watch it lowered into earth, a dark homely prison.
I find my body in a distance, my mind is a mess
and my friend is a phone. I shelter myself with a clear household name,
so I can climb in and relive its duress.
My body and I united last in one expression of ending shame,
Will it be worse when I find these things true, my soul is a transient and body, recluse.
Or if, from comatose, I wake to find that my friend, the phone,
is the kind I must call
and not one I talk into.
