Where had they been,
this connected couple
with vacation luggage
on the train?
What intimate moments
had they shared?
would it continue
now they’d landed
and were on the final leg
toward home?
She looked longingly
at him,
but he was buried
in his electronic device,
reading messages and posts
from those he barely knew.
Yearning for him,
she softly,
gently,
unbuttoned her raincoat,
revealing her
feminine,
pink,
softly-covered
iPad.
She turned it on.
Only then
did he look
in her direction,
not at her sweet face,
her tender hands,
her golden hair,
her luscious lips,
her deep self that had been his.
He glanced,
instead,
at her
flickering screen,
wondering not
what she thought,
(For his ears were plugged)
but what she was looking at.
Satisfied,
he turned back
inside himself.
Jealous,
I wanted to slap him!
“Come on, man!!!”
I thought.
But instead,
I gazed out her window
until I caught her eye.
Then I passed her
a small, sad smile,
as if to say
“I’m sorry.”
If only.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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