the devil's box

you grow weary of cell phones.

the constant
beep
and ring of them all.

the addiction.
the need to look and look

to see who is there,
while the person you're
sitting
with

doesn't matter as much.

it's the ones in the phone
that count most.

holding them close to the vest.
cradled in hand.

sleeping with them
like metallic lovers,

texting incessantly, emojis,
links,
emails
and the rest.

they're adored,
this little box
of technology gone amok,

all warm and fuzzy, buzzing.

they are the best, real people
who are present,
are out of luck.