Broken
Dec 19 2008


The divorced father
of one
is connected by a thin copper wire
to his beautiful teenage daughter
on the opposite coast.

He pictures her from memory
— more than 2 years younger,
all pink unicorns and snuggles —
and wouldn’t believe
this tall young lady
whose father, or mother
would embarrass her
in front of friends.

He remembers broken telephone
from his own
sepia-toned childhood
— two tin cans, a string pulled taut —
as if she could feel his tug
through thousands of miles
of copper cable and optical fibre
that snake
under streets and plains and mountain-tops
from this chilly evening gloom
to California afternoon.

Where she talks,
glancing at the clock
pre-occupied by thoughts
of boys.

More than anything
he always wanted to be a dad.
But her mother’s grasping lawyers would only grant
2 calls a week,
booked in advance.

As it happens, she’s on a cell
which clicks, then briefly disconnects.
“Sorry, missed you there.
Breaking-up,” he says.