The Telephone

“this tar pit appliance
the distance it once
miraculously bridged.”
—David Trinidad, “Black Telephone,”
The Best American Poetry 2010

David was the medium—
A cinch to hypnotize.
Reacting with tears to
Messages that had yet
To be spelled out.

His single fault—
As a novelist was simple.
An unwillingness to
Either revise or plan
Ahead the narrative.

His untended gardens—
Turned to peat, to tar
And eventually fueled
Our séances at the
Ouija board so well.

Peering like teenage—
Grease-monkeys into
The celestial machinery,
We had to trust it to
Hang together well.