The Long Way Around

The cord is a stiff, black braid,

tangled in a box of old tax forms

and dead lightbulbs.

My nephew called it a banana,

laughing at the weight of the handset,

the way it doesn't fit in a pocket.

I put my finger in the number four

and pulled. The drag is mechanical,

a heavy, reluctant groan of gears

trying to remember a pulse.

It takes a lifetime to get to zero.

The dial clicks back like a heart

trying to clear its throat,

waiting for the line to open

on a house that isn't there anymore.