I waited by telephones
And then brought the telephone to me.
I looked at my nails, chewed brittle to the bone
And I lay my head beside the inbox.
This is the New Age of communication, after all.
My fingers stripped striped the keyboard
With the back of my thumb, like on a piano
But not music,
Just tap tap taps.
Iâ€™d read a book called â€˜Waitingâ€™.
I smile wryly now, in recollection; in the conclusion of
How we inherit the discreet furniture of our lives;
Memory captured carelessly in sound, in sight, in scent.
I am covered in a patchwork quilt of losts and founds.
The punctuation of my existence
From moment to each moment
I have found in book titles.