Our House With The Rotary Phone Poem by John F. McCullagh

I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.

I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams

A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.

I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn

My past like a picture ripped from its frame
They left not a stone on a stone
Not even the numbers on wood painted green
of our house with the rotary phone.


Our house and its twin have been wrecked and removed
And replaced with a modern brick “home”
So pardon my tear as I stand at the bier
Of our house with the rotary phone