Telephone

So here's a poem I wrote in seminar on the phones in the Telluride House and I.


That phone really interests me because it is a means of communication. It probably connected to another line within the house and served as an intercom.
Intercommunication.
I too am a communicator. I send and receive language to everything that uses me as an intercom.
Intercommunication. The telephone is broken. I wonder why? It seems like it's been a while since a soul touched the dial. In this way, I am different from the telephone.
I do not require regular use or a maintenance man to ensure that I am operating smoothly. The phone is black. So am I. In this way I am different from the phone. We are both black but I don't think someone would follow the phone around JCPenney suspiciously just because it was wearing a hoodie. Or to choke the breath from the microphone even as it whispers that it can no longer breath and is approaching death.

Both black but different. As for what the phone was for, I don't truly know.
and in that way, the phone and I are very much the same.