by Ryan Apple
I am deleting your phone number today,
erasing your email, and dragging your name
right into the trash.
Small wonder we call ‘techies’ unsocial.
You’d think I was wielding a voodoo doll,
each numeric digit a finger or toe,
backspacing all trace of you from existence.
Perhaps semantics could help.
Let’s reframe this in terms of release: Today
I let go my end of the wire,
to send it racing a thousand miles
through cities and rivers, forests and farms.
And when the slack finally snaps on your side,
may your stride be lightened wherever your road lies.
May your mind no longer have to stutter step around
me when you hear Bach on guitar
or see the word “Apple” with a capital A.
Let’s face it Paul, and be honest
as only strangers can,
this day to de-clutter was bound to come,
tossing aside knick-knacks of our past,
your name a hurdle to dialing a friend,
my fading image a smudge on the glass
somewhere overlooking your faraway world.
Ryan Apple lives in Lansing, Michigan with his wife Darcie and their six children. He began writing poetry in high school, but only recently began public readings and publications. Since 2006, he has been employed as a music professor at Great Lakes Christian College. He devotes himself to the teachings of Jesus and serving his local church family. His hobbies include ping-pong, playing guitar and mbira, and video games with two or less buttons.