Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year. This is 30/52.

Screentime

I am trying to enjoy this quiet coffee but the couple fight too noisily,

she on her laptop at the table by mine,

he remote, his voice scraped with static.

I catch a glimpse of him on her small screen and

try to guess where he is.

A small table, just like ours, the same wicker, the

same well-tended ficus and philodendron.

Maybe he's in Paris and, homesick, sought out this

overpriced but familiar chain cafe.

Or maybe he's in Prague and, tired of all those churches,

wandered into this room’s twin.

Their voices rise to a shout.

Ah, now I hear him. Next door!

A refill, please; this is just getting interesting.