The Memoir Of A Locker

Hello, my friend. 

How have you been? 

It's nice to see your face —  

or ... your forehead skin. 

I don't understand 

what could be so vital 

that you never look up 

from that little black cellphone. 

I don't know what color 

your eyes truly are. 

All I have seen is  

the flash of your camera. 

I am the cleanest locker, 

or so I think. 

You take a million pictures of me 

without so much as a blink. 

You don't have any friends 

that you ever talk to, 

but you send pictures of yourself to strangers 

so I guess you (kind of) do.

I have never seen 

your face in real life, 

only a filtered picture 

of your fake "face in strife."

My friend, my child, 

I carry your things. 

All day, year round, 

never with thanks.

You'd think that you could 

look up once in a while. 

Maybe then I would 

know your smile. 

Perhaps, if your phone disappeared 

then I would at least be able to see your tears.