Phone Home
Aug 31 2008


The latest addition
to the museum of obsolescent things
is a pay phone,
right beside the typewriter, the tape machine.
The curator was especially pleased
to find one with an analog dial,
purring as it circled back.
The part you held in your hand
was big and black,
and could break a foot if you dropped it.
And best of all — local calls, 10-cents-a-pop.
With a great wad of gum, pale pink
stuck under the seat,
hard as rock
— “pure vintage” , he beamed.

We have become impatient,
so intent on the future, rushing towards us
that nothing’s not disposable —
in just a month or so,
the latest gizmo scorned as old.
Which is why I like this discarded phone.
I like how big it is
how indestructible.
The pay phone, the newspaper box
on every busy corner,
as permanent as the city itself.

The louvered doors snap to one side
with a quick metallic rattle,
and I slip inside.
My dime makes a satisfying “kerplunk”,
and suddenly, an operator’s voice pipes-up,
brisk, but helpful.
And utterly surprised
I reel-off the number
still in my mother’s voice,
drilled-in to me
from childhood.

I can hear it ringing now,
just as a guard comes running.
“Patrons are not allowed to touch the displays” he barks, wagging one finger,
snatching the phone from my grasp.
I can just make out the faint “hello … ? ”
as he slams it back on its cradle.