Someone
I occasionally see.
Always on the go &
clutching her device.
(No wonder the Germans
call it Meine Handy.)
Like other pedestrians
her texts leave scattered
alphabetical trails
soon to disappear.
While waiting at a crosswalk
she looks up from the screen
for a moment &
unexpectedly smiles at me
before instinctively pushing
a few auburn locks
behind her ear.
Once the light changes
she’s off again.
Never greeting anyone
along the avenues
– we’re just faceless mannequins
roving the fluid urban landscape.

Born and raised in Brooklyn, Robert Windorf resides on Long Island where he is an Ed.D. educator. The recipient of several poetry awards, including recent citations from the City of Tucson and the City of San Diego’s respective literary festivals, many of Windorf’s poems and flash fiction have appeared within various anthology collections and literary journals.