I am the door to your room, wedged open
by a bear-cub door-stop. My whistling veers
into the through-draught. On a small, round,
laminated table, there’s a pavement-grey
telephone. It takes me half a minute to dial
your number with my index finger, which is
slightly too large for, and consequently pinched
by, the single-digit holes on the dialling circle.
It takes a further while for the number to register.
At the point of connection, I’m over-prepared:
it’s my body cut into two which speaks, gabbling
at the double. I’m not even sure that it’s you
who’s answered – you who no doubt isn’t
used to receiving calls from your own home;
who probably wonders who the hell this is.