Telephone Comfort. Poem by Mary X

The room is empty.
Unless you count
an empty shell
that sits
on a chair as
a person.

There is shuffling in
the room next door.
Chit-chat from the mouths
of loved ones but
there is no deciphering

of these cryptic voices
retorting to each other’s
ponderings.

The voices mingle together
as if glued by a prit-stick.
Then more are added -
more
and
more
until the page
is completely covered
with magazine voices.

The page cuts itself out
and comes to life.
The ginger-bread page -
the page that is fuelled
by voices,
voices
more and more
voices all fucking
each other and
enjoying the sea
as if in summer.

It runs into the center
of the room,
a big page of noises -
voices with legs,
scribbled tones
and monotone
drones.

Then in an instant;
the page runs away and hurls
itself out the window.

I watch the page fly away
into the sky then realize
that I need to put
down the phone.