They are not exactly unreal
But they feel like children
Typing daintily on their pads
Holding hands across their mouths
Asking questions to be heard
Seeking in all they do
To recapture the illusion
Of their mother's compassion
Or to avoid being late for
Their father's dis-appointment
They trade their things of value:
Hair curls, smart quotes,
Visions of effects
For looks of respect,
Familial laughter
They shovel down the lunch
They don't deserve
And worry out the time
They cannot solve
In hopes the ghosts who hold
What makes life important
Favor them with a song
To record for tomorrow's
Posterity of stories to be told
More fuel to unquenchable fires
That burn just like the eyes
Of the man I saw on the way
Living in the sand canals
Below the high rise
Huddled in blankets
As he sat alone
Staring at me
As if I actually had been born