Phone Number Poem by William Graham

When the phone rings, do not fear;
It will be the rich man who calls.
It will not be my voice you hear.

I will never again appear
At your doorstep—winter or fall.
I have moved on to next year.

I wore cotton; he wears cashmere.
He likes all things Provencal.
No longer my voice you will hear.

At his estate in the moors of Yorkshire
You will live a life smoothly royal.
In the mornings, my voice you will not hear.