It was a pleasure to watch him talk: Occupé,
Occupé, the way the pixels darted, how they caved
in around the “O.” His face was kinetic,
a pixel field in spring.

He read cue cards, though poised
too high. We could never meet.

It went on like this for years, the news coming in
in waves that watered my scalp. But it was lonely this way.
The pleasure grew thin, and his face grew flatter,
as was popular, but it grew dirty too
and sun-spotted.

I’m tired, John, I said one day, Can we stop?
Can we meet? But he continued: Libre, occupé,
Pretty sphinx in the Mrs. Claus coat, c’est occupé,
and then he shrugged.