Distracted

She’s preoccupied,
with the orchestra in her ear,
words on a page,
writing on a wall
and an Indian Myna
trying to peck its reflection to death
on the rear vision mirror of a Hot Rod.

I’ve sat opposite her countless times
but I don’t think she’s ever seen me.
If I was in a line up with Bugs Bunny,
Wonder Woman and Astro Boy
(of retractable Machine Gun in the buttocks fame)
she’d fail to pick me out.

How does one bypass her warehouse of gizmos?
Without taking a break from her novel
she listens to a phone call with her right ear,
appreciates a symphony with her left
and types blindly with a second phone.
Is she human?

My eyes search for a third breast
beneath her snugly fitting satin blouse.

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