The Telephone: A Prose Poem

One ring and then you're gone not caring how curiously wrought you leave me. Well, thank you for the thought anyhow, whoever you are. Perhaps it was you, so far away, up in the mountains with your children and husband and friends. Perhaps you thought it would be nice to call and say, hello, we think of you, and ... o, yes, you still have my picture the one you said you would send a month ago. Maybe you wanted to know it got here alright, or, you wanted me to know it is on the way and will be here in a week or so ... or perhaps it is you, from whom I haven't heard in months (more like years) since you walked away and prmised to write or call on your next stop in town but never did, or di we say goodbye? You seemed absorbed in a thought or feeling you did nt want to share that night and said your head ached and walked away to ... your liberty it seems,but liberty from what or from whom ... from our relationship? From me? From your fears? Were you running from this mystery ... this dilemma inside you which lollops you from God to women and back to God again only to start the cycle like the off-on roman collar you snap at will ... or ... is it only me
wishing it were you ... but perhaps ... perhaps it was you, my friend some miles removed, traversing a new passage in older age--entering into a new life, unsure of the future and lonely, facing it all adamantly so. Maye you wanted to stay in touch with a symbol of your past, the life you leave behind like a cafe sidewalk you'll never walk again, like the friends i've left behind ...
because ... it couldn't be you, you with your status newly acquired, you who are so impressed by appearances and names, no, it couldn't be you because i am not enough to satisfy your thirst for some supercilious dream which kills whatever authenticity you still have, or ... was it you, reaching out to say hello, reaching out to life, reaching for a friend, afraid to find no one, prefering to dial time-of-day like old Sara Pratt just to hear someone say good morning and have someone to say thank you to. O! But what dream lies behind the man of power..? Who knows!?
Because ... perhaps it wasn't you at all; perhaps it was someone calling the wrong number.

(written by me)
(1979)

Rather stream of consciousness, isn't it?

All the things an abruptly terminated phone call could be.....

Very nice!

:applause: :applause:

i wrote it during a time when i was heavy into the works of virginia wolf.

At the time i even wrote this poem:

a writer's prayer to
virginia woolf

like
a moving stream
i move
to where you lie
beneath a tree
and though we never met
let your spirit rise
wish me well
stretch out your hands
look into my eyes
let me learn
the writer's flame
that burnt in you
dress me
in the apprentice cloak
teach me
how to use my pen
upon the page
like a sea
upon the shoe
to write
a moment's truth
the mind-the heart-the page
sailing
to touch your hands
i move.

Thank you for posting it!

"much obliged" as they say, or used to say, down south in the little towns in mississippi. i am glad you liked it.