I recently observed four teens in a booth at a Portland restaurant, each completely absorbed in their smartphone. No conversation. No laughter. No connections. This poem in today’s NY Times reminded me so much of that:
They sit with their heads bowed to their screen,
A worship of glass, their faces erased.
A city flies by, no matter the scene,
Curiosity’s child now plastic-encased.
Bright minds that once soared, now tethered by wire
Peck at bright spots with fingers a-twitch
To save them from shifting demons from dire
Or run through the woods from Dorothy’s witch.
What sorcerous spell has seized these bright lights?
What cunning pied piper has snaffled our young?
Did we not perform the ritual rites?
Have we forgotten the songs that were sung?
The high sun at noon cost Icarus dear,
The Glass God we made eats children, I fear.