Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Ghosts

It rings in a
cavernous hammock.
No location,
only a prodding
to respond to the dark.

It is my parents calling
from a Bakelite planet;
I imagine retracing a long flex
to a whirling dial.
I hold the heavy handset to my ear:
'hello mum, hi dad' -
the phone is an electronic
hiss of dead air.

I sense they want to speak,
but they're too far away.
Words fizz in my skull.

Whatever they have to say
belongs to a yesterday
I can no longer relate to.

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Maureen McGreavy Pigeon Tart November 23, 2019 at 11:19 PM Palpable Eric Ashford November 24, 2019 at 12:32 PM Hi Maureen, I took a liberty with this. My parents certainly lived in a 'Bakelite' world, but I was a young man in a more modern world. Dial phones, but lighter then those old black heavy phones I implied in the poem! Multicolored hands sets. I kind of miss them. Cheers.