The Portal

The screen, a blue kind of light,

showed nothing new. The same

white page, stark, and quiet.

Two days late. Who's to blame?

My thumb, impatient, rubbed a smear

right on the glass, a grimy track.

Dust motes swam, in sudden fear

of what I might not get back.

It promised contact. Not a sound.

Just the slow crawl of the clock.

My own breath, in this empty ground,

a hollow, mocking knock.