Line Poem by Amanda J Harrington
Line
Big red phone,
Receiver heavy in my little hand,
Hard to hold steady,
Or understand,
The deepened, dark, night-time voice,
Was my grandfather.
How confusing for a small child,
To hear a much-loved voice,
Contorted by the line.
Stretched between here and there,
Linking what we know and what we remember.
These days, I'm too small to lift the receiver.
It rings in another room.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 4:35:30 AM # 1.0.0.1119
