Generations...

He handed me a phone.

“Don't answer it,” he said.

“...Can I call someone with it?” I asked.

“That's fine,” he rubbed his head.

The phone rang. I glanced up—

He was standing in the corner

Pulling hairs off his scalp.

“Don't answer it. I warned you.”

“But then, why did you give me this goddam phone?!

If you'd kept it, I wouldn't be tempted.”

“If I'd kept it, then how could you call anyone?

I swear, you're so smart, and same-time senseless.”

Well, that made me mad: he hands me, tells me... he's senseless.

So next time it rang, I decided

To show him that maybe, sure, HE picked up wrong,

But I could handle answering. So I did:

“Hello! Good morning. Is this person X?”

“Um no, person Y. Who are you?”

“Oh, we're just calling people like yourself

Today, to ask them a question or two.”

“People like myself? But you asked who I was;

You didn't know. So—who do you mean?”

“Oh, we just wanted to talk to the kind of

Folks who would answer their machine...”

By the time I had begged, shouted, slammed down that call,

I felt tired and ashamed. And the man—

Who had handed it off—had no hairs

On his head. “So now you understand,”

He whispered with soft-sorrow eyes,

But also a bit of a smile. “Look, a boy!”

I turned, and there, a glowing little

Man. He reached for our phone like a toy.

I imagined all the worlds that he could build,

Together with his friends, linking voices in a day.

So, filled with fearful love, I spoke strongly by his ears:

“Tool your dreams with this. But don't answer it, okay?”