I am the one with glasses halfway down my nose
who called “time” on the rotary phone
to reset the clocks in my childhood home,
Who stretched the long, curly cord of that phone
into the bathroom and shut the door
to sit on the floor and talk
behind the illusion of privacy.
I could never be reached on my walk to school,
nor at the library, nor at the pool,
so I carried a dime in my pocket
– then a quarter –
just in case.
I first learned to type on a manual typewriter,
where I felt each key hit its mark – strong, satisfying,
uneven with its ink – my ring finger never as forceful
as my index finger or the middle one.
I would study the map before taking a trip,
copying street names
onto a blank page
while I drove.
I am the one with glasses halfway down my nose.
I kept a paper calendar until three years ago.
Did you know? I’m not embarrassed to say.
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National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days
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