The Telephone

It comes in black and blue, indecisive beige. In red and chaperons 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. Its needle sound does not transfix my ear or draw my longing to a close. Ring. Damn you!