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In the 40's I was black, not even shiny.
And so were my mother, father, and cousins.
In the 60's I came out in all kinds of pastels.
Soft pink, sky blue, sea foam green, 
I was a new shape too; streamlined.
Some called me names and laughed.
I did not mind because everyone fought over me.
The second they heard my ring they'd be shouting 
and running toward me.
I had spittle on me most of the time, it made me feel loved.
My great great great great grandchildren are not as lucky as I.
I heard so many voices - high ones, low ones, happy ones, sad ones.
My grands only hear one voice; just one.
Their tails have been eliminated.
They are not prominently displayed.
They don't have the pride we did.
Sure some have fancy covers, but 
They are not part of the family.
My great great great great grandson  is sometimes worn in a pocket all day long,
never taken out.
My great great great great granddaughter gets plunked into a woman's bra
on a daily basis.
In a bra!
And they only hear one voice.
They are not part of a family.
No one fights over them.
No one yells, "I'll get it!"
I'll get it used to surge through me like warm butter.
It was a love call.
None of them have curves or dials they are proud of.
My great great great great niece was stolen.
You heard me right.
Stolen!
Her brain was removed, curtains for her.
No one could have stolen me.
The whole family would have fought them.
Even if they hadn't,
I was hooked in.
I was loved.

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