The girl on the tram is sitting opposite me. She can't see me : I’m seated diagonally she taps her phone I see her fingers reaching Down deep into the heart of what she’s writing. She glances up scans all around looks down again I keep my head down. Meanwhile her fingers nimbly Lengthen in intensity and velocity While mask, glasses and scarf hide Her frown or smile she's masked besides I've no intention of catching her eye. Because there is no way she's writing reflexively Nor is she writing voluminously Neither blogger, tiktokker, pen friend is she I sigh to my self finally and knowingly She must be, like me, writing hidden poetry.