2 2 9 00

My childhood phone number feels immature,

not enough digits, quaint, backwoodsy.

Writing it out, it seems preposterous,

like a German getting laid in Britain:

Too! Too! Nine! Oh! Oh!

I would like to improve on it

but can’t see how.

Perhaps with an area code or zip.

But I don’t think we had one.

We were nowhere and everywhere,

as far as I knew.

Maybe I’ll start writing it in public places:

For the time of your life,

call 2 2 9 0 0.