The Bell System
Goodnight—Mary, Jane, Pat.
Sleep tight, you sweet operators
of America, your voices strung
like laundry across this nation
drowsy with a full century's-worth
of light. There's nothing you
can't tell me that I haven't already
heard gift-wrapped in your General
American grace, but still I wonder
in what chamber of a horse's ant-
eaten skull I'll recover my youth.
Our human garden grows rich
in these green suburbs and what I feel
is not so much loss as a lessening,
as if the self was nothing more
than a late-model sedan crossing
the city limit in search of a better
resale value. It's funny, this franchise
of molecules that fizzes up in each
of us, like motels viral along the interstate:
some full while others flicker and die.
When will the stars rain down
like cheap plaster? When will language
be little more than a dandruff shaken
from our heads? Ladies, you tell me
the number I've been calling has been
disconnected, but where did the person
it belonged to go? Alone on the line
I find only a prairie alive with funneled
wind, a nation heavy with wheat and light,
its chorus of dim voices locked in a kind
of pharmaceutical sleep. I find a system
unchanged, charged with electrical pulses
that send the receiver scurrying in their cradle,
the longhand breath of ghosts rising
through switchboards to ask Who's there?
Well, tell me. Who is there? Who goes?
Ladies, please wake up. I want to try again.