18 April 2008


Bumped into this bloke the other day,
a guy I’ve known from way, way back –
but think I could recall his name?

Distinguished, yes, and family indeed
by face – but unabashed we eagerly
embrace as dearest friends.

He says – this cell-phone of mine, see?
Hey, it’s yours for free. Take it as a gift –
try and find some use for it.

Call anyone, anywhere you care without
a fee; and you’ll get calls from anyone
for free. A straight-up deal, yeah, really!

Who pays? I ask, uneasy – & what’s the
number please? Dunno, he says, all I know
’s they call my name aloud – and it rings!

He explains; when I need to make a
call I think a face or name – it calls
for real, they answer, usually.

I miss a call it backs for me. Returns
the call if asked – don’t always, hey,
no biggie, I’m not the one obsessed!

But I insist. Who pays? Nothing’s ever
free. Well, all of us eventually I guess, he
says. Though that’s no obstacle I see.

So what’s the catch I ask, and where’s
the poonani? He shakes his head, you
won’t believe it mate – availability!

You gotta be there, talk occasionally –
state a case, agree or disagree, whatever.
It sounds incredible, just so surreal.

That’s the deal! Okay, you’re on. But what
you gonna do? Peachester, retirement, he
confessed. Should ‘a done it ages back.

Gonna grow avocados and brew beer,
write poetry at last. Had it up to here
playing God with this darn thing...
© 31 March 2008, I. D. Carswell
My apologies Stretch, but your London
Marathon was positively godlike - so
you feature as the poem's picture!