by Camilla Jean Welsch
“Well, then, don’t answer the phone,” I say to myself.
It’s too cold to touch.
Maybe I should wait until the frost doesn’t make my hand stick to the receiver.
“No one has phones like that anymore,” you say.
You say, “Nowadays they’re constantly on, and always warm to touch.”
I think not.
I know I’m the old fashioned kind.
You’d have me believe otherwise.
Because the truth is, I melt when you dial me up,
and you keep me talking till I’m tangled in the cord, lying on the floor, barely able to stay awake, we’ve been on so long about absolutely nothing.
Sometimes when I sleep, I dream of being on the phone with you,
and I startle because I feel I’ve fallen asleep and been rude to you.