by Allan Koay
Name and number
on a yellow post-it
on the edge of the messy table,
shivering in the path
of the turning fan,
fluttering like the fleeing heart.
In a nearby district of that country
sits an obedient phone,
dark blue with beige numbers,
dressed in a coat of dust,
They regard each other
with furtive glances and
like spies in an old noir flick.
Stance, gait and repose demand that,
like the song says,
we dolly back and fade to black.
I sit like a master,
Her name is the sound of honey.
© 2008 Allan Koay
Listen to this poem:
Creative process: Allan Koay says: I hate explaining stuff. So, I'll just say that this is probably like in 1835 when they thought Haley's Comet was going to collide with the Earth, but it veered off at the last moment. It was also the year Mark Twain was born. He died in 1910 when the comet passed the Earth again.
Allan Koay is a journalist by profession. He thinks William Faulkner and Kurt Vonnegut are the greatest. He says, "I hope they like me, too."