Short Bakelite Poems

I've been wanting to call you,
but the rolodex was trashed decades ago,
and the laptops got Alzheimer's.

I need a Bakelite dial phone
one heavy enough
to withstand some heavy breathing.

When the living and the dead communicate
they need the right tools.

Love never dies they say,
yet an I-phone has a microchip
that has everything, but a heart....

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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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We need better plastics,
To hell with the bakelite saints 
That stand silent inside,
The great wheels,
 of the grand vehicle. 
Forever sleeping behind visqueen, 
Covered plexiglass,
 hiding themselves 
From the eyes of prophets,
And cruel November.

We need better plastics,
The Christ that guards 
The scorpion forever persevered
In lucite;has become, 
frail from the sunlight
And cracks, with each 
Touch,slowly deteriorating 
With each passing December....

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