We have computers, smart phones, Zoom;
a flat screen in the living room
that’s full of fluffy comedies
and earnest documentaries;
our cars direct us where to go, 
say which route’s quick and which one’s slow;
a cube delivers corny jokes,
French recipes, the signs of strokes,
will play us reggae, acid rock,
Miles Davis or J. S. Bach;
we’ve indoor bikes made in Guangzhou,
a gizmo for strong espresso  
that wakes us up, goes down like silk,
and even lactates frothy milk.
The big, the small, the far, the near
are visible; we’ve built the gear   
to see the birth of a new star
and forests deep in Myanmar.

Yet when we’re without screen or phone
at 3 a.m. and all alone 
they’re back, all the old dreads and fears
with just the music of the spheres.
                        

Hating underclass behavior
he plays the rejected savior,
calls his students Gadarene swine:
“From this water can I make wine?”
Before the boys (still more, the girls)
he flings his highly cultured pearls;
he doesn’t even try to hide
an air of being crucified
nor his doubt of their damnations.
Reading his evaluations
convinces him it’s really true:
he groans, “They know not what they do.”

To his/her career each has a right
but consider this young couple’s plight.
She professes Math in Milwaukee
while in Boston he does Chemistry.
They divide the distance mileage-wise
and in Buffalo they synthesize.
Though with tough ionic bonds they’re paired,
their problems equal their distance, squared.