-the tale of two big telephones-

considering a man
and he's on a big telephone
talking to a buddy about the game last night

and on the big telephone extension upstairs

his wife's waiting,–– waiting
for the line to clear because
she wants to call a friend to complain about it.
she's glancing through the pages of a magazine 
as if sitting in a waiting room to be seen by a dentist.

It’s a nonchalant sort of waiting,

as in a routine checkup,–– routine,

as in there's no abscessed molar

causing her discomfort,–– routine,

as if nothing’s loose or tainted

green at the gum line.–– she's just waiting upstairs
in a small chair, adjacent to a small table
leafing through the pages of a monthly, coffee-table endorsed

magazine with the big telephone extension echoing the joyful

madness downstairs, waiting for the line to clear, waiting for

the end of the busy line where the game is being dissected like the body

of another man, in another town, in another State, who

dropped-dead in his snazzy red jersey late last night of cardiac arrest

in the bottom of the 10th after a walk-off cleared the bases for the team

of the guy draped in a snazzy blue jersey on the big telephone downstairs.