Phoneless

losing your mobile phone
in an orchard where trees
visibly rustle amusement
doesn’t make finding it easier

observe; if Velcro fails to 
contain Nokia’s venturesome
free spirit and you’re phoneless
time condenses dismally 

sane reasoning won’t restrain 
spectral sphincters expressions
of disbelief; how could you be
so stupid they self-flagellate 

yet you see it in mind’s eye as 
lonely and as clear as millions of
leaves littering – but you hear only
the birds twitter and the wind 

seven times you roamed and rang 
before ring tone awakes; seven
times in seven rows before the tune
of Abba’s melody reverberates 

“Money, money, money 
must be funny
in the rich man’s world”
© 26 November 2009, I. D. Carswell