Edward Wilson

No dial. No keypad.
If you were small, you
might have lifted it with
both hands. And Grace
would ask for the number.
You gave it, thanked her
and listened to the grinding
ring while your friend up
in the room with curtains
billowing toward the bed
(since it is hot and the attic
fan is on) starts toward the
stairs or leaves the porch
swing rocking by itself
for the screen door and
the hallway toward the
niche or the little table to
sit in the chair beside it
and pick it up, not sure,
but hoping for your voice.

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