Art

How old. How long ago.

The numbers were shorter

and most people's in the book then,

and in the abyss of afternoons

you swam through at that age,

expanses of rooms 

we found ourselves at the hand-set, the purr of the tone,

somewhow warmer then and heavier, 

dialing someone from the book.

Pick a name. The thrill of the game.

Keep a straight voice.

To begin with it was swear words

then hang up, rolling about with

laughter as afterwards we'd replay

recounting their dismay, before

we clattered it back on the hook.

We were addicted but we took

our giddy japes to grander heights,

started phoning businesses.

Booked out an entire Indian Restaurant

for a  Saturday night with ten 

different voices. What little shites.

And for the piece de resistance 

we ordered ten carpet salesmen

with the same burgundy sample

to turn up at the same house

down the road, in half hourly

intervals on Saturday afternoon and we exploded

when the thing was done,

daring ourselves to

stand at the corner

and watch them come.

Like writing your own

suburban comedy

and watching it play

out in reality. Perhaps my greatest work.

A page of land line verse

that still makes me laugh

A canon of idle parts

lost in the past

Where stepping out onto the stage to play a part

Was something that took daring. That was art.