A Year of Poems – Day 81

IPhone poetry tapped out on glass screens.
Spoken verse picked up on an old machine
that samples audio at the wrong rate,
A floating aria that rings with a buzz
portending the right earbuds hast’ning fate,
Art perfectly portrayed on retina
displays free from all the collected fuzz
of reality, but Mona Lisa
still draws lines to view her from another room,
We wear nice clothes to hear the song resound,
trudge through rain to hear the poet’s voice bound
round an old bar and so drive out the gloom
built up in that twisted crook of the heart.
It turns out its screen was smudged from the start.

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