Just A Call Away, 1965

She dries agile hands on a snatched towel,
quicksteps to the newel post. Habit avoids
the frayed edge of stair carpet, carries her
through coloured lights spilling from front door.

‘Is it you ?’ said in unison.
Thumb pulse, obstinate tiny cylinder:
white knuckle grasp, polished handset:
the line crackles, the silence listens.

A dust mite catches the invisible line,
wires vibrate between telegraph poles.
They dare to breath but not to speak,
too much of each at once.

The coins drop at his end;
he thumbles another gnarled edge,
swallows familiar blood metal spit,
chokes on a whiff of joy.

The rainbow in her hall flickers;
she strains to hope beyond the
grating in the lock, the dialing tone,
the phone’s cradle hard as rock.