the home phone anymore?
the black
phone
on the kitchen wall.
who has that number?
no one
that i know.
and yet,
the long cord,
and circled numbers,
the permanence of it,
the memory
of youth,
crouching
behind the basement
door,
sitting on the steps,
stretching out the cord.
and in hushed tones,
sweet talking
some girl.
how can i ever let go?
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