Waiting for the Dial

It sat on a glass shelf in the thrift store,

a heavy piece of plastic, matte and black.

I felt a twitch I haven't felt before,

a need to pull the number and let go back.

The coil of the cord was thick and greasy,

stained with decades of a stranger's life.

Dragging the zero wasn't ever easy,

it cut the quiet like a kitchen knife.

I listened for the mechanical click,

the whirr of gears that take their own sweet time.

It makes the modern touch feel thin and sick,

this slow and heavy ladder we used to climb.