My professor, an Austrian,
a guest teacher of Arabic at UCLA
spoke German and English,
of course,
and Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Russian,
French and I forget what else.
He told us to give him a call
if we had any questions before
our final.
He pulled out his pocket
notebook, and flipping pages,
read aloud his phone number.
We laughed.
He responded: My head
is full of languages,
who has space for
these numbers
that change every time
you move.
We prided ourselves
on our heads chock full of
numbers:
friends, boyfriends, girlfriends,
home, second home, relatives,
near and distant,
and relearning them each time
someone moved.
My sons’ cel phone numbers
follow them like their social
security numbers.
I don’t memorize numbers now.
I’ve a cel phone insta-call.
Back then, with a head full of
numbers,
I had a pocket
full of change. When
working on the road,
a pager,
and in my daily route
a map of working phone booths.
If it be occupied, I’d wait.
I preferred the real booths
to the hooded one,
although some booths
I tried to avoid,
the ones rarely cleaned.
But if necessity demanded….
I cannot recall the last time
I called from a booth.
Maybe at an airport.
Nor from a wall plugged phone.
If they were around, I wonder
what a pay phone would charge.
Someday, perhaps soon,
a teacher in a film class
will need to explain the scene
where Christopher Reeves
does a double take at the
hooded booth
as Clark Kent ducks into an alley
and Superman, Kal-El,
The voice of God?
emerges.
I guess that passes for progress.
3 Shevat
21 January 2026