Odd, that I know
more telephone numbers
from years ago, than I do from now.

Could rattle yours off in rhythm,
do-wop, blue-eyed: soulful.

Your voice was analog then, coming through
the earpiece diaphragm, a black heavy handset,
you landline babe – you! – not digital.

It resonates still against my cheek
yet struck duller tones then
against my pillow.

Sometimes you’d drift,
perchance to dream,
we, still talking,
while morning trucks started
slowly making their way,
hello to the new day.

Okay, let me let you go.
Go get some sleep.
Sleep will do us both some good.
Good night.
‘night.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013