In front of him
there’s
a screen, always.
Sometimes,
a keyboard too.

He stares all day at Illusions of arrivals
and departures,
of everyone out there being somewhere close.

Calls the images friends.
Calls them by their false names.
Calls them Nazis when they’re disagreeable
and beloved when they’re not.

But above all,
from dark rooms,
from cafes, from stolen
work time, from deep
anonymity,
he calls them
through the screen
as if they could hear him.
The blank fields
on screen
encourage it.  
The soothing,
empty responses
encourage it.

He screams, sometimes;
cries on the couch sometimes;
wonders why he feels so tired
and so afraid to get out
into the cold world
where touching someone else
in the flesh
requires more than the simple use
of your fingers.