Friday, September 7, 2012

The Number

Old Telephone Booth by Jiri Hodan
image from

As the dusk faded away 
And the moon rose high 
In the midsummer night, 
His thoughts wandered 
To the faded phone number 
Scrawled in pencil 
On the back of a recipe card, 
Buried with the essentials 
In his rucksack  
But never far from his mind, 
A ten digit link 
To the life he could have had, 
The one within his grasp 
Until anger built a fence 
They could never climb.  
He could call that number, 
Beg to be forgiven,  
But after all these years 
He knows that number 
Only connects 
To an empty phone booth, 
No operator assistance available 
To trace love’s last call.

~~~ This poem was written using words from the Sunday Whirl a few weeks ago…a little late to actually link the poem up over there but still like giving them a bit of credit, great little community of writers!  I will be sharing this one over at Poetic Asides for this week’s prompt of memory poems.


sreeja harikrishnan said...

oh this is so touching....some moments really matters...and when they are gone.....great write...

Mary said...

Sometimes a person just doesn't get a second chance. A good story told here with these wordle words.