poem , september 18 , 2025

You mulled over old forum posts trying to repair me

to pull me apart, clean my network,

repair my ringer coil, replace my diaphragm,

I wish I could whirr on command, 

belt out a song to show my gratitude.

My headset held firmly between your

shoulder and your ear,

you play with my dial, turning it

and letting it go, listening to the

click click click. You sigh into the

transmitter, Bakelite – formaldehyde smell.

rubbing your fingers up and down

my cord. 

You never plugged me in.

This conversation,

For us two,

Alone.