it rings and rings, that
sound now fabricated for
flat screened rectangles in
jean pockets, or purses
back then you had to jump
off the bunk bed, sprint
down the hallway hoping
whoever was calling would be
desperate enough to let it ring
8 times, 12 times, so important
that someone, anyone answer
because it could be a girlfriend
or boyfriend, or heaven forbid
a parent calling about a pet
dog who was put to sleep
then tears in front of all
the other dormers in Foss Hall
and to think this happened
maybe twice a day, the phone rang
twice a day, or maybe three times
Daniel W. Polk 