The black receiver in my grandfather's house

Telephone, telephone,
riddle of the ringtone,
the numbers make no sense.

Apparently a tool I use,
I confuse -
user and tool.

Telephone, telephone,
riddle of the ringtone,
wire on a millstone, 
round around my neck.

The earpiece, the mouthpiece,
always the same piece
lying in my hand.

Welded to a heart of bone,
while my fingers grip around
it has me -

Clubfoot, clubfoot
banging at my ear,
to put it down, to put it down
every time I wish,
impossible to kill it is,
recurrent dish - of fish. 

The mouthpiece sputters, spits and hits
(in backwards running time)
the dumb, the numb, the muted bum,
my face, my mouth and me.


© Anthony Thwaites