My telephone directory,
a paper brick of names;
the portal to almost anyone,
under the beige plastic phone
in the unlit passage.
I stand beside it,
a spec next to an ever-faster turning planet;
the chance to climb on long past,
receiver in my older hand
like a revolver with one bullet,
racking to remember
a name I knew once
from a face I can still almost see,
before clicking it back down;
a now daily resignation...
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