Direct Line

The neighbors really began to wonder
When he installed the old Bell Telephone booth,
Complete with coin-op, black dial telephone,
Having one out in the country was one thing,
But when he installed it
High in the top of the Ponderosa Pine,
They talked among themselves,
They would see the green glow of it at night,
The figure of a man inside,
Talking, talking until midnight or beyond,
When they asked him about it
He just called it Arté Moderné,
Inquiring: “Did they like it?”
To which they replied in the negative:
“Brings down property values,” one said,
“Town folk will think we’re crazy,” said another,
Later, when the economy went bad,
They came with their pitchforks and torches,
Pounding on his door until he came out
In his Big Smith overalls unbuttoned at the sides,
No shirt and a straw hat
With a bright orange bandanna,
He stood in the light of the torches
Listening to their cacophony of catcalls
Until the phone rang in the overhead booth,
It rang loudly, so loudly they dropped torch and pitchfork,
Covered their ears and fell to the ground,
“Just a second, folks, I’ve got to answer this call,” he said,
Walking to the base of the fifty foot tree,
Then climbing hand over hand,
Up the evenly spaced branches clear to the top
Where he entered the booth,
The horribly loud ringing stopped,
The octagonal green shaft of light
Illuminated phone booth and tree,
They looked on in amazement
As the booth slowly levitated
Changing shape as it moved upward in the light
From cubicle to octagon capsule,
He smiled down upon them,
Waved and was gone.