Hello, Hello Henry by Maxine Kumine

My neighbor in the country, Henry Manley,

with a washpot warming on his woodstove,
with a heifer and two goats and yearly chickens,
has outlasted Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill
but something’s stirring in him in his dotage

Last fall he dug a hole and moved his privy
and a year ago in April reamed his well out.
when the country sent a truck and poles and cable,
his daddy ran the linemen off with a gunshot
and swore he’d die by oil lamp, and did.

Now you tell me that all yesterday in Boston
you set your city phone at mine, and had it ringing
inside a dead apartment for three hours
room after empty room, to keep your busy.
I hear it in my head, that ranting summons.

That must be about the time that Henry
walked up two miles, shy as a girl come calling,
to tell me he has a phone now, 264, ring two.
It rang one time last week – wrong number.
He’d be pleased if one day I would think to call him

Hello, hello, Henry? Is that you?