Daniel B. Silver



The ring used to mean that my baby was calling
Four times in an hour
Less than that, sometimes
Ding-dong used to mean that she was rising or falling
These oscillating tones recall past times

The little blinking light meant a message was waiting
Fifty per day
More or less, now and then
Little, imperfect prose of affection
The things I wrote to you, I won’t say again

The envelopes in my mailbox used to bear your writing
About one per week
Though, varying from time to time
Ink on paper like a photograph of your love at the moment
Proved to me a little spot in your heart would always be mine