Bakelite Phone

The black bakelite phone
With a sluggish rotary dial,
Installed in our Warsaw apartment
Made us part of the elite;
Phone lines were scared but
Farther, a retired army officer,
Was entitled to one.

He looked with suspicion
At any use of the phone
That wasn't for emergencies;
He had it placed in the hall,
Making us stand while calling,
To keep the calls short.

My friends dreaded calling me
And getting him on the phone--
He had a habit of
Putting the receiver down
Once he thought he'd heard enough.

One day I saw him
Talking on a phone
While combing his hair
In front of the hall mirror--
He was smiling and I knew
He was talking to a woman
Who wasn't my mother.