Portent Of A Disconnection Foretold

Commuters space-walk along the train platform;
Broken links:
A human chain in mourning.
Faces' lines read like tyre tracks:
Stanzas torn abandoned on a zebra crossing.
Air conditioned skin awaits to shed on the rattlesnake.
Silencer earphones on "stun", eyes like rose-tinted grenades..

Indentured meer cats mutter mobile hydraulic conversations:
I'm calling just to let you know
I can't talk now I'm on the train,
Or I will be if it ever arrives,
Talk later..
And again the roaring silence washes over the caller,
Like a prodigal son,
Surfing a crashing wave of liquid nitrogen,
Smashing against a zero-gravity beach head.
Return to sender.

Such curious nano incantations murmur,
Like a thousand Buddhist librarians:
I'm on my way;
I'm not on my way;
I'm nearly there, but..;
I might be there late;
I might not be late, but if I am
I will only just be late..but if I will be I will still be there;
..and can you buy cat food on your way home,
Love you..Hello.. I said I love you..Hello..?
That hello with its plaintive question mark:
A portent of a disconnection foretold?
She returns her phone to her handbag,
And looks down,
Her eyes shimmer and falter like an evaporating mirage,
And the little mouse on the track,
Weaves and bobs like a boxer on LSD;
He's obviously not a church mouse.

Me?
Oh I just listen to music,
And sometimes text the message:
I can't text you now I'm on the train,
Or I will be if it ever arrives..