Copper Wire
Mar 14 2010


They never got around
to hauling off the phone booth here.
Too small to notice
a back-road town like this.
Or maybe the locals got up a petition
got some politicians
making a fuss,
and they left well-enough alone.

The light’s broken, but you can make a call.
The bi-fold door, clattering shut.
The dial tone, buzzing.
The rattle of my last quarter
bottoming-out.

It’s stifling in summer,
a transparent box
in unobstructed sun.
Which reminds me of when we were kids
in the doldrums of August,
setting flies on fire
with a magnifying glass.
Back when geography mattered,
and there were no mobile devices
tracking us,
and we weren’t electro-magnetically attached
to everyone.

If only I could dial, instead of punching buttons.
I’d savour the well-greased whirr
counting down,
the dull clunk
when it finished spinning,
the feel
of heavy-duty machinery.

You got a single call
with your last quarter
or dime.
Which takes serious thought
when you’re out of gas
or lost,
on whom could you rely
in the middle of the night
to pick-up
and come?
A coat, thrown over-top of pyjamas.
Floppy galoshes, undone.
Cold breath
turning to fog.

A big black phone
as heavy as a typewriter
on a cluttered matching night-stand
with its shrill insistent ring.
Connected to each other
by copper wire,
running uninterrupted
all the way to her house
her bedroom
her bed-side table.

As if you could give it a good hard tug
and feel her holding on.