Closed Circuit

It sat in the junk drawer for a thousand days

next to the batteries and the tangled twine.

I used to know the numbers in a dozen ways,

a sequence of clicks that were entirely mine.

Now I spin the dial and feel the teeth slide,

a mechanical rattle that leads to a wall.

Whatever it held on the very inside

isn't going to answer the telephone call.

It’s just a cold hunk of iron and steel,

a paperweight holding down a stack of old bills.

I’ve forgotten the sequence, the way it should feel,

and the silence it keeps is the kind that kills.