Conversation with a telephone pole

You still stand so still,
branchless arms stretched,
haunting along the highway—
while we go
rushing over asphalt
racing the v-line

We mistreat you,
telephone pole. And we
never seem to see
each of you, unique.

Some stapled by upcoming
events, now in the past.
Some skin splintered,
carved out by love struck
graffiti. Ivy crawling you
while you stood at work
carrying our message home.
Several dogs piss on you,
quietly warring to own you.

We mistreat you,
telephone pole. And you
stand there still, telling
our tale.

Someone will be late for supper.
A car crash at 5th and Main.
A teenage breakup.
Someone has fallen
and cannot get up.
A prank call; Not funny.
A wrong number; No apology.

Even now, in the wireless age,
you stand there so still
while we go rushing,
admiring the parallels of your landscape
telling our tale. Someday,
I imagine you will serve no other
purpose. But perhaps
to be chopped down
and repurposed.

We mistreat you,
telephone pole.
We mistreat you.

written on 07/17/2011 by: Matt Kane