By George Bilgere
Perhaps, in a distant café,
four or five people are talking
with the four or five people
who are chatting on their cell phones this morning
in my favorite café.
And perhaps someone there,
someone like me, is watching them as they frown,
or smile, or shrug
at their invisible friends or lovers,
jabbing the air for emphasis.
And, like me, he misses the old days,
when talking to yourself
meant you were crazy,
back when being crazy was a big deal,
not just an acronym
or something you could take a pill for.
I liked it
when people who were talking to themselves
might actually have been talking to God
or an angel.
You respected people like that.
You didn’t want to kill them,
as I want to kill the woman at the next table
with the little blue light on her ear
who has been telling the emptiness in front of her
about her daughter’s bridal shower
in astonishing detail
for the past thirty minutes.
O person like me,
phoneless in your distant café,
I wish we could meet to discuss this,
and perhaps you would help me
murder this woman on her cell phone,
after which we could have a cup of coffee,
maybe a bagel, and talk to each other,
face to face.
Eric Koch is spending two weeks in Europe. A number of his regular readers have generously volunteered to provide guest-postings – this one from Charles Small.
Eric Koch’s book, The Weimar Triangle, is available at Indigo-Chapters and in your local bookstore. 
When I sent this poem around to a bunch of people a few weeks ago, I got back several responses of the “amen, brother!” variety. But my “cousin on the left coast” had a more interesting response: “Forget the formal, technical stuff, discussion of which leads to ‘Oh, but is this (really) poetry?’ Focus instead on the topic and the argument. Do we (really) want to confront
other people face to face?”
I enjoyed this
We, being Canadians, may be reluctant to directly confront others acting badly, but we can exult in the opportunity to do it vicariously. Bilgere for Prime Minister!
If you’ve ever gone off walking in the mountains for days, then you understand the shock of coming back to civilisation, the smell, the noise. We’ve got used to it. As presumably will the next generation to the added babble. Perhaps, being of the older generation, one questions all the promises made about progress.
My favourite cafe now serves the most delicious coffee, but – the sound of the coffee grinder and the expresso machine (along with the phone babble) mean I’m unlikely to overhear Jean Paul Sartre discussing the latest.
.A wonderful poem on all levels, for my taste. I sent it around to about 20 friends, who responded with enthusiasm and a sort of shock of recognition at the trend, and their own reactions. I plan to carry around a supply of this poem and hand one to people waving at the empty space in front of them.
And yes, I am quite happy to speak to a person face to face. You can make good friends that way!