Breadcrumbs: A Poetry Collection

The Rotary Phone

When my father's will was read
Family gathered round his bed
Eager hands awaiting treasure
Mourning eyes that mask a measure
Death left, feeling disrespected
By grunts and groans of the collective
As the arbiter folded his paper tightly
Speaking lowly to seem sightly
"He's left it all to charity"
But one small thing that went to me

A rotary phone, now obsolete
As silent as my dad's heartbeat
Paint now chipped and numbers faded
Not what I'd anticipated
An antique, worthless, seemingly
There must be a reason he left it to me
I toy with the chord and rusted dial
Perhaps the absurdity makes me smile
Dear old dad, always the jester
Left one last innocent little pester

The phone sits on my bedside table
Watching me sleep when I am able
Many nights I spend awake
Pondering til my temples ache
Why do I keep that busted ruse
That I've never seen my father use?
I'm sure some millionaire would buy
For a price unquestionably high
And yet I find I can't let go
I'll keep the phone until I know

Nighttimes wax and wane again
The phone has become like a dear old friend
I tell him goodnight, he stares unblinking
What could that pile of trash be thinking?
I flash a grin at the silly old thing
Then all of the sudden it starts to ring
The chord is still attached to nothing
I find my breath huffing and puffing
Shaking, I pick up the receiver
My palms soaked now with a rising fever

Lifted firmly to my ear
I prepare for what I am to hear
Coughing out a weak "hello"
My heart beats fast, but time moves slow
A muffled sound from the other side
Cracks my smile open wide
A voice so familiar, thought to be gone
I finally feel I'm catching on
Tears fall as I now rejoice
"Hello, my son" says my father's voice