Telphone

On the table lies
the phone, waiting
expectantly. Cold,
black, silent--
like a bear
in hibernation
deep in winter,
full of dreams
in its slumber.

Still when his hand
grasps it, flips it open,
finds her number,
he cannot press the final
button that will send
it through.

He is through
with the numbers,
has played them too long.
Even when the lucky ones
turn up and the dice fall
sevens and the royal flush
is dealt, still there are

Memories. Inalterable,
immobile, regretful.
So he closes it, sets
it down and waits
instead for the ring.