THE TELEPHONE

The Telephone

It comes in black

and blue, indecisive

beige. In red and chaperones my life.

Sitting like a strict

and spinstered Aunt spiked between my needs

and need.

 

It tats the day, crocheting

other people`s lives

in neat arrangements

ignoring me

busy with the hemming

of strangers` overlong affairs or

the darning of my

neighbors` worn-out

dreams.

 

From Monday, the morning of the week,

through mid-times

noon and Sunday`s dying

light. It sits silent.

It`s needle sound

does not transfix my ear

or draw my longing to a close.

 

Ring.  Damn you !

Maya Angelou.