by Andrea Crafton
an intimate pantomime plays out
publicly. no one claps between acts,
but they rearrange in seats uncomfortably,
everyone following the script but us.
focus lingers along our figures,
just the same but not in sync.
eyes touch you across the aisle while
breeze from the door breaks space.
the audience is dry and confined
with the sweat of hands sticking to the screen.
personal prop, all faced
to interface. I am talking to someone
else, and I know you are
just an accessory.
the eyes speak infidelities,
they perform and are willingly cast.
a retina’s reality shows no loyalty
in looks. we’ll never meet,
a single I with two eyes
staring at screen.