Wait for the Tone

The basement air smelled of wet coal and old smoke,

a neighbor’s life spilled out on a folding table.

There it sat, avocado-green, a heavy plastic yoke

with a coiled cord as thick as a cable.

I wanted to put my finger in the hole for the four

and drag the sun around its dusty track.

To feel the tension, the mechanical roar

of the gears as they fought to pull the circle back.

That slow, deliberate whir of the return—

a patience we traded for the click and the light.

There was time in the gap, a lesson to learn

in the seconds it took for the wheel to sit right.

I didn't pick it up. The handset was cold.

I just watched the numbers, faded and yellowed by grit.

Some connections are better left untold,

and the dial stayed exactly where I found it.