The Screen You Can't Close

You reach for it before you decide to reach.
You unlock it for nothing. You stay an hour.
You set it down to live; your hand returns.
The day disappears one small reach at a time.

Your eyes tighten. Your neck learns the wrong angle.
Five minutes meant for nothing become the evening.
Your daughter spoke. You answered the screen.
You went to sleep with the blue glow still in your eyes.

The hand reaches before the mind decides. The mind learns to follow.
The screen you can’t close has closed the day behind it.