Age is a number
that has pluses
some of us insist.
But yes.  More shoes
drop.  Each drop
heads for the pit
of another quaking stomach
every time a phone rings
or a server announces
that we've got mail.
Blasted spam, we soothe
ourselves.  Telemarketer, damn.
But. . .could it be a friend
just wanting to talk?
A child who remembers
to ring?  Be grateful
for spam catchers
and caller ID.  Oh, no.
Oh. . .no. . .
Throats close and hands shake
for calls that close together
until they stretch
as incapacity and death delete
loved ones from speed dial
and all our address lists.

Soon we will be the shoes.
But remember, our soles can take it.
It is no closet we are headed for,
but a home.  A home
where we will gladly nestle
for the company.

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  November, 2003