Bob's Phone

Let's workshop this bitch!

Bob’s Phone

To make a call I had to go over to Bob’s,
a miasmic shanty out back. I would knock
and Bob would let me in, the sole room
abrim with trash and piss bottles. The path 
uneven with bones and blended decay,
I would fall each time, earwigs and roaches 
scurrying into clicking cans, mice darting
under wrappers. Why would he let me in? 

One night my dad was drunk and things 
were bad. I went to Bob’s to call my mom. 
My knocks went unanswered. No lights, 
I went in. The door being open had me 
worried he was there. It was past twelve 
and he worked. I clambered over trash 
to the green dot, which I knew to be 
that of the phone perched on a mound.

I cringe imagining Bob having been there. 
Did I step on him? Fall on him? Imagine
him walking in to find me. If I had then 
my mind now, I would have said, “Bob, 
it was urgent.” But with my mind then,
I would have tunneled into the mounds
and stuck out the night (fueling my dad 
even more to say Bob was banging me). 

*This poem is unpublished

Photo credit: nypost.com/2021/12/22/landlord-forced-to-dig-out-hoarders-human-waste-mountain/