Waiting for them to turn
off his phone, snatched
somewhere between 
here and 5th, we think,
as he walked past a 
thief, unknowing. That
phone’s a lifeline, a point 
or connection, a royal 
pain in the ass. 

Will he still be a person
without his access to
wi-fi and Google-maps,
to mark his place on
the pavement, in the 
spaces between 
destinations and the 
persons who hold his
identity in the ways 
they blink their eyes?

It’s blocked now, nothing
in or out, no words 
or numbers traveling
through the between, as
I write about it on my
own brain that I carry
outside my head. We’ll
see if we’re deleted in
the morning.