All of them, all at once—
the WPC at the scene of an accident
scrolling through her album tracks,
the jogger at the park urinal
browsing his 18-30 holiday snaps,
the fat wife in a loose towelling gown
singlehandedly fixing herself a snack,
the widow cooing to an absent lover
as she slips out of something satiny and black,
the invigilator with a four-card straight
praying for a six or a jack,
the teacher’s favourite coyly texting
the rough with his feet on a desk at the back,
the man wearing only leopard-print shorts
hunting for a bedsit in a Laundromat,
the couple comparison shopping for shoes
on a comfortable sofa in Habitat,
the distracted Dominoes delivery rider
tripping over a crazy paving crack,
the banker relocating strategic assets
without passing GO to an offshore bank,
the tourists streaming down Baker Street
slavishly following Google Maps,
the jumper sending his neighbour
a last request: please put out my cat—
who were long ago primed for the trigger
are polaxed in their tracks
and stand and stare beleaguered
at Blofeld’s free-to-download mobile app:
Put down your phones, my angels of ruin,
rise up, and attack,
then their phones ring, and they all go back
to doing exactly what they were doing.
© 2013 Slush Poet
