There’s an assortment of numbers
Hanging on the office’s wall.
Each a different person to call.
And yet they are filled with wonder.
Look at how each number can weave
It’s way through the lines of the board,
Or together become a hoard,
Asking for each of us to leave.
Yet we stay here, sitting alone,
With our hands clutching the dials.
Our mouths sound like nail files
As they beg us “please” to go home.
And it isn’t till the clock strikes five
That we will get to leave them be.
It isn’t till then that we see,
These poor numbers become alive.