These new phones are slim, breakable. Smooth as still water. I
crave plastic on plastic, wrapping stiff cord around my finger
like a curl of hair, flirtatiously, though I felt invisible back then
on my parents’ porch steps, as far as the cord would take me.
These days I could use something to clutch, something to slam.
With a typewriter, writing was not nearly so clean
or so quiet. I took comfort in the drawers
of the card catalog, reliable and sturdy as a
train. Not even a button is a button anymore.
I visit them at elevators and crosswalks.
I pull them off my sweaters
just to hear them clink together in a box.
I smash this screen to watch it form a web.