Hello. Operator?

Fingers fumble as eyes close. No need to resist heavy lids.
Yours watch. Always.
Finger find key pads as light dims. No need to resist natural clocks.
Yours persist. Always.
Rotary phones, land lines, coiled cables, elastic black PVC cords.
Preserved in concrete buildings for futures
to query. Always.
What happens when the phone rings yet no one answers?
Do you watch me count –
first eight, then nine, then ten rings. Quietly. Always.
Upper and lower lips dance in unison as background
tunes stream. Sinatra. Frankie. Mercury. John.
Like old times. When I’d wait for your slipper
clothed soles – navy plaid base, woven fairy-tale pink
threads – frayed, no matter – to putter ten steps to the right,
plod eight steps down the hall,
then pounce – one, two, three – on the red lacquer phone.
Hello. Operator? Can you help me? Please.
Screwed tight – twist right, clockwise,
in four rounded corners – then lock.
Perched forever – under moonlight, music, and mind –
above the hallway half desk
and your yellow lined notepad – three by five.
Two Bic pens to the right, one black and one blue.
An always sharpened, never used No 2. To the right.
Preferences for indelible ink persist. Always.
A carved glass bowl of chocolate buds, wrapped in glimmered silver,
in the bottom right.
I see you as you were, as you are, as I’ve always hoped to be.
Etched in a mind that no longer thinks on its own.

Hello. Operator?

Hello. Operator? Can you help me? Please.
What happens when the phone rings yet no one answers?
Speak not. Tell not. Fingers fumble as eyes close.
Count – backwards – minutes, hours, years – until we meet again.