The Slow Turn

Her small finger, hovering there,

over the flat screen, a ghost of a dial.

“What was it for?” she asked, a blank stare,

no concept of the waiting, the while.

No instant click, no swipe, no rush

to connect, just the long, slow arc

of a finger through a numbered hush,

then the whirring back, leaving its mark.

Each digit a small, deliberate act,

a commitment to the sound it would make.

A ritual, a forgotten pact,

for a voice, for goodness sake.

Now, a picture. An antique, she thinks.

While my own thumb, restless, still seeks

that resistance, the slow, satisfying clinks

between the words that no one speaks.