phones

i prefer

the ring of a phone

blue cord tucked neatly

by my mother’s flower vase

beyond the open

door

where the heat

of the sun

a yellow bowl

sweats clouds,

and salty dew upon my little

forehead

drips down my hands

to a tinkling glass of

orange punch

my grandmother’s frothing recipe

kicking my smiling tongue

and the ring is birdsong

in the din, warbling past

all the canvas tables

laid-out beef stew

bubbling with familial

joy

i prefer this

over two ticks

three dots on a line

the cold touch

of your texts