The phone is heavy a block of old beige

The phone is heavy, a block of old beige

that smells like the smoke and the spray.

It’s a prop from a different, lonelier age,

and I’ve nothing of value to say.

I lifted the handset to dial your code,

forgetting you’re gone from the line.

I’m stuck on this stretch of a desolate road,

pretending that everything’s fine.

But the dial tone is steady and flat and cold,

a hum with no heart and no end.

It’s a story that’s already been told,

with no one left over to mend.