Hold The Phone
A black bakelite box with heavy handle
Kat Mortensen©2009used to rest on the cherryw00d
end table, but it never rang
for my tiny ears or hands to hold,
not until I reached high enough
(on the hippy-dippy, flower-power chair)
to grab the smooth, green receiver,
off the new box on the kitchen wall
in the new house, and say, “Hello!”
I’d slump down in the doorway
between the hall carpet and the shiny lino—
just shootin’ the breeze with the gal-next-door
(though we’d be meeting up in minutes to discuss it all
once more).
Later, it was the Time-Magazine free gift
of a Chinese-cheap, push-button
with the long, long, long, long cord;
the rat-a-tat-tat of the pulse-tone
(couldn’t afford the beeping one)
hammering the side of my head,
as, filled with dread
I made that morning-teacher call.
Dates—blind and otherwise (some
previously viewed)—
most, not living up to the sounds of
their voices on the other end of the line,
made disappointing arrangements.
That’s fine.
Too bad, that cad after cad
came and went with ring after ring.
And yet, this plastic thing
would bring true love.
(It was a telephone that facilitated
my felicitous union and
I am grateful to Mr. Bell, or Gray—
whomever did it first.)
Now, I charge and recharge
my little, cartable communicator;
flip, my trippy techno-wonder,
but still, I insist on a land-line
to keep me grounded.
Tell you a secret:
After, “Sorry,
Wrong Number”,
I always wanted
a princess.
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