The Telephone Number

Searching for a lost address I find, Among dead papers in a dusty drawer, A diary which has lain there quite ten years, And soon forget what I am looking for, Intrigued by cryptic entries in a hand Resembling mine but noticeably more Vigorous than my present quavering scrawl. Appointments—kept or not, I don't remember— With people now grown narrow, fat or bald; A list of books that somehow I have never Found the time to read, nor ever shall, Remind me that my world is growing cold. And then I find a scribbled code and number, The urgent words: 'Must not forget to call.' But now, of course, I have no recollection Of telephoning anyone at all. The questions whisper: Did I dial that number And, if I did, what kind of voice replied? Questions that will never find an answer Unless—the thought is serpentine—I tried To telephone again, as years ago I did, or meant to do. What would I find If now I lifted this mechanic slave Black to my ear and spun the dial—so... ? Inhuman, impolite, the double burp Erupts, insulting hope. The long dark sleeve Of silence stretches out. No stranger's voice Slips in, suspicious, cold; no manic speech Telling what I do not wish to know Nor throaty message creamed with sensual greed— Nothing of these. And, when again I try, Relief is tearful when there's no reply.