The mobile phone is on the moving taxi seat.
Speak into it, you eyes, its Latin ring is seen
In the mauve of the taxi seat, quite agitated
Of much pants comfort, less heart- warmth
Of yesterday, in more cold of today’s words.
It is in the hot words of wax in a cold syntax
Of a mobile talk between shoulder and head
As the former comes close to a sneezing head.
Its words are filthy, steeped in religious tunes
In the kitschy filmy tradition of the back alley.
Its tunes rhyme with the body’s foot tapping.
The head is now leaning tower on motorcycle.
Such heads, leaning on shoulders, warm cops
In their pockets, their hearts, burning stoves.
Its talk now walks on its feet on road like bird
A non-flying bird of the wingless, its feet tied
Together in the coop, in a joy ride to market.
It will speak in hush from someone’s stomach.
