Passengers on the move, not moving, becalmed in a between place
on the way elsewhere. Dead quiet, staring intently into their palms.
They are talking with their quick fingers, eyes flickering, picking up messages,
catching the latest news. They know the price of gold, what’s happening in Iran,
tomorrow’s weather; they scan the world, their faces backlit; they are no spectators
but part of the play, tuned in to a global exchange where thoughts,
facts, rumours, insults zip along wires like cash on a Baldwin Flyer. It’s off-key,
this silence; it should hum, crackle with static; we should hear a buzz
pitched just too low for eavesdroppers, the sound this glow would make, that wells
from a dozen tiny screens into the room whose windows
are dark with winter, looking…
