Princess Phone


The telephone's two eyes are sobbing.

Waterlogged, bloated with tones,
the phone dangles spreadeagle
on the receiver,

a sea creature sunk in its cave,
all sore suction cups
and tangled ganglia.

The telephone has sworn an oath
to board the next boat, to choke

up the oyster lobes, barnacles
and soggrass it's had to swallow.

Stricken with eavesdropsy,
it has sutured the seashells,

dunked their heads under
to keep them from whispering.
And you thought it was such

                a good listener—
you didn't know anything,
blabbing away,

lips loose as two amphibians.  
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