Waiting for Connection

I can see it in the air outside, glowing
towers of data, unenterable, unscalable,
a red ghost metropolis risen up
from the frog-squat houses of the suburbs;
stacked to vanishing point, translucent
rooms full of translucent boxes; air
chirruping with information
– I could scoop it hand-over-hand into my mouth,
stick my face in it, holding my eyes
open beneath the surface, roll in it
until my clothes cling to me obscenely.
Its neon walls flyzap possibilities –
to walk down the street, to leave the house –
and anyway all the libraries are shut,
the shops are shut, the houses are shut
and every lit window in their red brick fronts
is a taunting monitor – IKEA, Facebook,
Twitter, IWOOT, Wikipedia,
Amazon, Google, Google, Google . . .
I need connection, I need stuff
and I need it delivered by 9 a.m.
My fingers, oh my fingers are slivered,
my fingers are slivered by catalogue pages,
my mind by the edge of the dead voice
that apologises over and over for the wait.

‘Waiting for Connection’ from Room of Thieves © Angela Cleland. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Salt Publishing, 2013.