David Subacchi

Telephone transported our voices through cables
Hoisted on wooden poles above the ground
Or laid secretly on the ocean bed.

We spun dials and spoke into receivers,
Strained at ear pieces, sometimes wound handles,
Sought the advice of the Operator.

As impatient queues formed outside kiosks,
Wind intruded through vandalised panels,
Aggravating our nervous discomfort.

Confined we retched at the smell of vomit,
Stale urine or cigarette smoke, cringing
Within these communication capsules.

Little we thought that during our lifetime,
Both image and audio would be compressed
Into a portable chocolate sized bar

And communicated effortlessly,
Free from discomfort and interference
Or the need for external assistance.