He Likes me. . .

He Likes me not. . .
He Likes me. . .

If memory serves,
what once was done
+++++with wistful plucks
+++++of soft, white daisy petals
+++++from their sunny, yellow middle,
+++++to wind suspense
+++++from fingers, hands,
+++++through distant lands
+++++and briny

has now become
a drought or glut
of whatever
clicks on icon thumbs turned up,
get duly tallied in
a cold, computer

While I know that
that patient wishing, waiting
may be by now
the stuff for carbon dating,
and that it may sometimes happen
that the counted Likes
will burst the ceiling,

I still somehow get the feeling
that something
really, truly has been lost
in the translation.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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