Wild Woman's technical prowess
stalled around 1989.
She came from the land of rotary dial phones,
and, before that, a phone on the wall,
where you picked up the receiver
and a nasal voice intoned
She came from party lines
and being busted at thirteen
for listening in on the next door neighbor's
conversation with her new love interest.
Wild Woman, growing dim of eye,
upgraded to a squat toad-like creature
perched on her window seat
with gigantic touch-tone numbers,
and a mechanical voice
that says who is calling.
Which would be great, if she could hear.
Mostly, the Toad intones "Unknown Number",
which is why she rarely picks up.
Occasionally a grown child will call
to ask if she is still alive.
Sometimes, she picks up, thinking it might be
one of her children, and finds
a telemarketer on the other end of the line.
Argh. Her chagrin is palpable,
and does not make the day of the unlucky caller.
There is no question that no one she is related to
will ever give her a cell phone.
When forced to use one, one offspring or another
will hand her a small biscuit-like Thing
that she looks at, nonplussed,
asking: "How do I talk?
Where is the hole?"
She talks to the air, disbelieving
this biscuit is an actual phone.
Her children roll their eyes.
"How do I turn it off?"
she asks, helplessly, thrusting it at
whoever is nearest.
She is okay - just barely -with an electric toothbrush.
But keep those little biscuits well away from her.
They do not compute.
for Shay's prompt at Real Toads: a poem with a rotary phone. Rotary phones - now THOSE were PHONES!!!!!!! LOL. She asked for magic. But I'm old and tired. Magic is those little cell phone thingies, and devices that do magical things far beyond my comprehension.