Masochist

His forefinger settles on the button,
but quickly lifts it off, as though singed.
Occasions when he desperately needs
to hear a voice, electronic or real
to fill the overwhelming void:
But only the roar of buses
& chatter of pedestrians
thunder in his head.
The cigarette, almost spent,
burns into his skin
& rushes him into Chaplinesque despair:
He’s transmitting from a dead zone,
where no signals emit
as if from a black hole.

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