Written by Michael Hill

The dead-end road
that I grew up on
was out in the country,
where backyards gave way
to woods, and woods to fields,
where fences were formalities
and neighbors shared phone lines,
where sometimes, expecting a dial tone,
you’d put your ear to the receiver
and instead find small voices,
at once familiar and foreign,
transmitting confidences
you might well have intercepted
had you not had the courtesy
to lower the handset
and gently hang up.

This work was featured in issue #3