Throwing Out the Landline

The day is coming when Mom

will throw out the landline. She’ll

see how small a task it is to bar up

all the windows, and she’ll know

why inmates get addicted to their cells.

“No one has a home phone anymore,”

I tell her over family dinner.

“Of course,” she tells me. “People bring

their prisons with them now. You see?”

I could not see then. But I think I do now,

as I watch the homeless stars

hitch rides on the bones of phone

towers, as Dad starts leaving more and more,

as the world evolves into something

Multicellular, partitioned, and so enormous

it can only fit within a 5.5-inch screen.

Soon, Mom will throw out the landline. Soon,

I won't be able to follow the power lines home.

Because if a God exists, I’m sure it is watching me

from behind this one-way mirror.

I’m sure it is laughing at how surprised I am

at the freedom that rests beyond

these five bars.