It's the second-last night of spring break then,
And i sit not before prairies of sand,
Or the relapse, of glossy waves,
But have nested myself by the landline.

It’s electric green eye is indifferent to me, unflickering,
Although the chord seems more crossed than usual,
And all i can think as i look at that cyborg is,
‘I’d find a way to put you in your place’

Perhaps if i stopped perching by it,
I could stop making small talk with, the silence,
And pretend it is a fax machine,
Or a walkman, just obsolete.

I will talk to the angels asleep on my shoulders,
And then the friend i made in the park,
Or perhaps the pizza boy who comes any hour,
They talk to me before leaning in.