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Tag Archives: phone

found poem: the president’s

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ the president_s
found poem © j.i. kleinberg


found poem: my phone

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ my phone
found poem © j.i. kleinberg

rules of engagement

phone cornerThere was one phone in our house. Really, there was no need for more than one as long as I followed the rules about when and how long I could talk. It wasn’t until long after I had moved out that the phones proliferated, finding their way into bedrooms and kitchen.

Our phone lived in the very center of the house, outside my bedroom, in a little corner of the long T-shaped hallway. Black and heavy, with a rotary dial, it sat on a small, ornate table accompanied by a slender chair, both of which had belonged to my mother’s grandfather (and both of which now live in my house, though not side-by-side). (The photo, with its sleek Princess-style phone, was taken decades later and in the lower right features a doorbell that my mother used to recall my father from his workshop in the garage.)

As an adolescent, I suddenly realized the phone afforded no privacy and discovered that the black cord (which then had no coils) was just long enough to reach across the hall into my room. If I closed the door carefully over the cord, I could sit just inside with my back to the door and there, for the 15 minutes I was allowed, talk in peace.

Unless, of course, my mother interrupted me, knocking on the door to complain about the hazard of the cord, or my secrecy, or the closed door. Once she yelled at me because I had called a boy. I don’t remember who he was or why I called him or how she found out, but it was a clear violation of her rules and in the lecture that followed she told me that I was a slut. She had a lot of rules. Some, like that one, I only learned about after I had broken them.

A Bowl of Words ~ fragment

…They took their glasses out onto the screened porch, the shoebox momentarily forgotten on the kitchen table. Stretching nearly the full width of the back of the house, it was Laura’s favorite room, the scene of innumerable slumber parties and romantic gropings and tumblings. She had come here to write in her diary, and had nearly pulled the curl out of the phone cord, stretching the handset from the kitchen wall phone to the cushioned glider, where she’d sprawl, rocking and talking, for hours. While the front of the house seemed to sit neat and orderly, a house on a street in a neighborhood, the back, by a quirk of geography and some astute landscaping, inhabited a country in which there were no neighbors, no structures and no limits to the imagination….
glider photo

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