Who are these shades

With severed thumbs?

I asked.

Those are the texters,

Virgil dolefully replied.

They met a violent end

While operating

Cars and trains and such,

Their gaze riveted to

The sleek black box

Instead of the road ahead.

So wedded were they

To their instruments,

The loss of their thumbs

Deprived them of

All manner of speech.

They can only gesture now

In piteous lamentations

O’er their sad state.

A wraithlike figure

Grabbed my sleeve and signed,

What news of Jobs?

Is it true he is no more?

Yes, alas, I told him

But the house of Apple stands,

Its iOS platform pitted against

The Android hordes

Gathering at the gate.

From the vacuous look

On their disembodied faces,

I knew that they were doomed

To spend eternity offline.

Never had I realized that

Downtime

Had undone so many.

(Originally published in Midnight Circus)