Telephone Lines
All days seem stunted now, slowed down while stuck inside. That mad arithmetic: possibilities diminish while anxieties multiply. My mind reels back. As kids on dull days we conjured telephones from trash. Find a tin can or plastic cup or Styrofoam: poke a hole in the end and knot a length of string between. Pull it tight then test. Holler, call, shout, scream. Grow bolder: take ten paces. Take ten more. And again. Listen: the cup is gone but the voice remains. Some mornings I can still hear it, the past reaching out to me: like when you press a shell to your ear and hear the sea. I want the way things used to be. My days now are stilted, beached between memories and a future that now feels out of reach. And yet. But. However. Something nags, niggles, will not give up. The world has not stopped. And I remember I still have some cups so I fling one from my open window towards the empty street below. The world has not stopped. It runs on in half-spoken dreams and hopes. One cup dangles on the string. I press my ear to the other end. Nothing. I wait. The distant hum of traffic. Birds on the roof starting to sing. Or at least their carefree chatter seems a kind of casual song. And I am beginning to think I had the whole thing wrong: the darkest of storms sometimes lead to the brightest of skies. From this broken world a new one soon may rise. After all, the sun still wheels. The telephone lines still ring and bring those same joyful voices from afar. The birds still sing,
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