PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I find myself sitting by the telephone.
I sit, quietly in my locked down world.
In my locked down underwear.
No release.
No mental or sexual satisfaction.
No animal heat stimulation.

I find myself sitting by the telephone.
Eating buttered toast, waiting for you to call.
The phone rings once.
A salesman wanting me to improve myself.
Another lost soul seeking to enrich my material world.
A hopeful voice of robotic passion,
droning into my ears.
I hang up on him.

I find myself sitting by the telephone.
Toast is finished, I light a cigarette.
Watching the smoke enter my lungs.
Wondering how long before it kills me?
Will you have telephoned me before I die?
Would you visit me in hospital and
stroke my hand as I draw my last breath?
I'm afraid of the answer.

I find myself sitting by the telephone.
Butting out the cigarette into the hardwood floor.
I imagine this is not a good thing to do?
I'll have to sand the stain away.
I'll have to sand you too from my heart.

You are not going to call.
You are not going to ring my doorbell.
I will never see you again.

I find myself sitting by the telephone.