Ode to the Old Ringer (rev)

Title?

There is more than conversation
in Bogart's hand, his cigarette teeth speak
to substance, and his eyes can almost see
the operator’s cheek, that curves
like a wave of sound.

It is no longer
the lattice edged ring,
not the ear against heavy black.
It is not the same grip, or weight.
There's really not much
to hold onto
at all.

There is no pleasure of waiting, anymore
no "expected" call, no magic
in the science of wires, only

Why aren't you answering your phone?

I'm calling you because I'm on the bus
and my phone is in my hand
and I have nothing to say.