Wall-Mounted Telephone

Wall-Mounted Telephone

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On any other wall
You might almost seem
Preposterous—
But there,
Hanging humbly beneath the clock,
Though loftier still than the
Tea cozies,
You are somehow tonal.
So tonal, in fact,
That were it not
For the fitful
Tolling of your
Bells
You might go unnoticed entirely.
How easily we might
Forget,
That far more readily than
The window or the door—
More so even than
The vent above the stove—
And just as wholly
As the television
Above the microwave
(Yet so much more democratic)—
You are our portal outside.
Perhaps,
(As we have already
Sprinted lightly over)
Your reign here
Is not supreme:
After all, by
Time
&
Time alone the hours are told.
But friend,
Your calls (however redirected)
Find no origin
In the orderly
Mechanics of above—though equally primor-
Dial—
Those same feeble, distant cords,
Now
Endow
Bakelite
And such
The role of
Meeting hands—
You may even find
Yourself the last receiver.
And perhaps not—
But there is one thing for certain:
Despite all trespass—
Cellular,
Acellular—
Even if you are stripped
Clean of your proud 911 badge--
My friend,
As long as there are kitchens,
And sorts of wall,
You shall have your place.

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