Three Fictions and a Truth

Enters, man on call,
A symphony concert hall.
Opens laptop to appall.

Keeps phone on silent,
But screen? It remains alight,
To receive alerts.

Unshaven, unkempt,
They would fain have thrown him out.
Then comes the call: server’s down.

Unshaven, on call,
Now I stand with phone in hand—
Alone, let snow fall.

©2017 H.K. Longmore

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