Whispers in the Night

He pulls out a cell phone from his jacket, and says,
"Look here, this is my Alex." His eyes light up
and he studies the photo as if for the first time.
A deep odour of pride mixed in with a deeper loneliness
wells from somewhere where his chest is.
"He is cute, my Alex; he tells me
'Tu me manques papa; je t'aime.'"
The corner of his lips twitches into the hint of a smile,
his gaze slides down to the tea cup, escapes through the window,
then crash-lands onto the darkening street.
His reflection merges with the feet of the passers-by outside
rushing to their lives from wherever they were,
some with rectangular pods glued to their ears,
love or fear throbbing down invisible wires.

His thumb rests close to Alex's face, which slowly fades
and disappears as the screen shuts down.
Someone outside is talking on the phone,
blowing cigarette smoke into an emptiness
which thickens and expands.

On both sides of the glass, like Christmas lights,
bright rectangles flicker from pockets and hands,
pick up and transmit whispers in the night.

A New Year's Prayer

That I let you.
That I let you go
Where you must.