After the Tone …
April 28 2008


The message machine blinks
dancing its cheerful jig,
making me feel I’m home
in a world in which I am needed.
I picture a beaming child
bouncing and clapping for more.

A cursory glance, walking past.
After all, there’s ice cream going soft,
and coffee cups to wash,
and a sofa cushion
in need of straightening.

At my desk, I organize pencils
— tapping them even,
a picket fence of sharpened tips.
And I fiddle with an empty page
looking away,
my back to that little red light
fluttering like an anxious heart beat
in need of resuscitation.

At the fridge, wide open
I peer in, unfocused
— suspicious milk,
half-eaten take-out,
and tupperware, unlabelled.
Behind me, the machine signals insistently,
like a single-minded insect
buzzing deep inside one ear.

I know who called.
I know what she wants me to hear.
And I stubbornly believe that if I never listen
this message doesn’t exist
— a game of telephone tag
in which she is forever “it”.

After dark, the little red light seems brighter
suffusing the room with its ghostly glow,
flickering relentlessly.
So in my restless sleep
this tireless machine
goes on and on,
berating me.