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LOVE BY PHONE

They are two phone numbers
ringing out at midnight to say ‘Sleep well’
she knows less of him
he less of her
as the ‘I love yous’ are their last words
like small gifts imposed on children
the days chide by with a child’s impertinence

and they will wonder, as it fades
they will search for
clues to what went wrong
to let phone-calls pass for love
to be happy alone as long as the phone rang
and other lives got on with it out of sight

it is not enough, never enough
to place the plastic of a phone where flesh should be:
nor let the static voices
speak for themselves –
this is the heart put on hold
forbidden, denied, a slap in the face –
anger drips like blood into a bucket, somewhere.

FRED JOHNSTON

(Fred Johnston’s collection, Alligator Days,’ is published by Revival Press.)