A Phone Call to Manhattan

by David Kramer


We had made love in a Narragansett beach house as the Beavertail Lighthouse

Sent continual beacons of light through the window whose rhythm matched our own.


And the call was never made.


At three in the morning, pushing me down into wood chips

Scattered about the Children’s Garden

In Peace Dale.


And the call was never made.



A red sweater on a cool Fall evening in Providence

In whose cuteness I saw

Grandchildren at my feet at eighty.

And the single phone call to Manhattan

That it would have taken

Was never made.




David Kramer is a published author, poet and journalist.  He is a professor of English at Keuka College and runs the online magazine, Talker of the Town.