CALL, Robert Beveridge

by Robert Beveridge

It is sometimes an act
of superhuman will to dial
the seventh digit. To listen
to the phone ring, anticipate
a voice on the other end.

In a roomful of strangers,
anyone could be your perfect
complement. How hard
does that make it to walk in?
The stomach turns in upon itself,
the eyes water, mouth dry.

It is all we can do to recognize
the snap as ball nestles
in socket. Ever human, our perverse
first desire is to test its flex, work
the raw joint. But it is true
that only the best will feel oiled.

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