-the iPhone-

With a dampened paper towel in hand,

I've wiped away a sticky,

brownish spill left on the kitchen counter

from last night’s bedtime snack.

It left a pattern resembling the Crab Nebula

the way it must actually be,–– a burned and nasty

trace element without the usual snazzy computerized

color enhancements from the inventive media labs.

I open my laptop to profound grief.

An Indonesian airliner's disappearance is reported.

It fell from radar into the dark vastness of the Java Sea,

–– Jakarta bound for Singapore.

Stark photographs are displayed on the front

page of the digital New York Times,—

people waiting for news of loved ones, a large private area

set-back from the unintentional cruelty of the terminal

where life is busily going on without them.

A young woman among the photographed
is sitting alone on a bench,––
her head bowed, her black, luminous hair 
falls in mourning across her face.

it's in her frozen isolation, the graphic stillness,
the inconsolable nature of her being, captured

in the indelible moment of her grief, which is palpable.

I'm drawn to linger there, to examine this photograph

above all others as though I have a personal connection to her.

At first sight she appears to be praying, but she’s not praying.

She's texting.

                                                  12/28/14