What the Poison in the Air Stole from Them

The young lie on the floor, fingers
and marrow fused to phones, they lie there
quieter than the poison in the air
 
The virus stole nudging in buses,
she fondles the screen of her phone,
limning the boy's eyes as she listens,
 
her finger is not in range, she knows
he will not see her touching his lips
but hopes he will feel the caress
 
We must tell them that they will, they will
noisily pull out chairs and seat
themselves around tables of laughter
 
We must tell them not to worry,
boys will cup soft breasts as they pretend
to watch movies in darkened theaters
 
they will sit with eyes closed, heads will lay
and press into shoulders, wedged
between warm breaths and galloping heartbeats.