Missing Phone

It was last seen by the Coco Pops two weeks ago,
lying on its back, staring up at the teapots.
It has an aptitude for Jazz and ventriloquism,
and is prone to shaking when someone rings.

It speaks in many languages,
has an impeccable memory,
but needs constant attention.
I didn’t report it missing before,

because I lose things: or walk into a room,
stand facing the wrong direction, staring
at a cupboard waiting for it to tell me why
I am here, then leave when it doesn’t.

My past with mobiles is dubious: one dived
out of my camera bag into a pond, another
I left on a radiator overnight, Mobile III
I dunked in a cup of tea when the alarm sang,

another fell in the shower and died of shock
a week later. But, this time I was good:
I turned it on regularly. If it comes back
I will download some ringtones perhaps.

I will take it to Belarus or the place it was made,
I will listen more and make sure it always has money
and something to think about. I will send haiku
text messages and ask people to reply with tankas.

What I’m worried about is that it’s jumped
from the third shelf or that the battery is dead,
sitting in its own darkness: but, perhaps it’s
just in someone else’s pocket and I should zip

my bag up more often. Perhaps that someone
has beat my score at Tetris, or is wondering
what Fran looks like, why Rebecca has EAS
by her name or how Ruthie does her hair.

The texts queuing to get in, will be turned away
back to Dhaka like homing pigeons. I won’t know
what you’ve wanted to say in the last fortnight
and your birthday card will be late again this year.