Wiseblood Books

The Telephone

A.R. Bossert

You lie through lines and falsely signal hope.
Mechanical imposter—she who spoke
Makes sweeter sounds than what comes through your holes.

Forgive me my accusatory tone—
See, I shall praise thee an angel dear
Who carries her sweet speech when we’re alone.
Then, eyelids closed, she whispers in my ear.

But no! You are a foul seductress, phone!
Where is her warming breath or tickling hair…
Your lack reminds me she is gone…
Fie, coiling cords! Her “here” is still my “there!”

You make her honey voice, but then you sting –
You make me love and hate—but wait—you ring.

 

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