The Finger Phone

“Grandpa,” she said, “what’s a rotary phone?
“Is it anything like a pet rock or cute stone?”
He laughed. “This will be tough, but I’ll try.
You might think I’m making things up. Why?

“Imagine your cellphone too big to carry.”
“Really?” she said. “Now that’s kinda scary.”
“It doesn’t have a screen. It has no apps—
No games when you should be taking naps.”

“No screen at all?” That seemed unreal.
“A phone without texts can’t be real.”
“Yes, he said, “and that’s not all,
Kitchen phones just hung on the wall.”

“I couldn’t carry my phone wherever I go?
What I said to friends, others would know.”
“To call a friend,” he said, “we turned a wheel
That spun back around with clicks of steel.”

“A wheel?” she said. “Like on a bike?”
“I guess in a way, but not much alike.
We poked one finger into a little hole,
Then turned the dial back and let’er roll.”

“For all seven numbers. Every one?
That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“Yes,” he said. “Get one number wrong
And starting over took so long.”

“Was there no delete key, not one at all?
What would I say when I made a call?
No earbuds? Then how did you hear?
Grampa, those were very strange years.”

He grinned and said, “To get to talk,
If the phone rang, we didn’t just walk.
Everybody there ran to the same place
To grab the phone like in a race.”

She shrugged and said, “I must confess,
Your ancient gadgets caused much stress.”
Grandpa grinned. “Perhaps that’s true—
But the phone never knew more than you.”