During the news coverage of the Orlando Pulse Nightclub massacre, one of the reporters talked about the scene in the club. Dead people, broken glass, mayhem….But when the smoke cleared there were scores of cell phones left behind. Friends and relatives who thought their loved ones might have been in harm’s way were calling, trying to reach them. Nobody was answering.
Cellphones of the Dead
A poem by Greg McGee
Cellphones of the dead are ringing
A chorus of desperate pleas.
Posing urgent questions
Which fall upon deaf ears.
Their owners have departed
They’ve slipped the mortal coil
Don’t leave a message at the tone
They don’t live here anymore.
They didn’t want to die here
They only came to dance
Maybe act up a little
Maybe find romance.
Victims of the crossfire
Fodder for the gun.
Targets of a hatred.
That’s hard to comprehend.
Cellphones of the Dead are ringing
Blown to smithereens
Mother and father yearn to know
Will I see her face again?
