Daily April poem: address book

LEDGER

An iphone can't be a palimpsest.

And the old one I used to use,

the one with a crack in the crystal

has lost its second life as a toddler toy --

won't hold a charge anymore

to power zebra or water sounds.

The pale blue onionskin paper

of my mother's red-bound datebook

still crinkles between my fingertips

but who will feel nostalgia

for smudged old screens

once the data has been transferred

to its afterlife

in a shape

we can't yet imagine?

 

 

This poem was written to the "address book" prompt at 30/30 poetry.

I haven't had a paper address book in years, nor a paper datebook, though I remember
the way they used to get written-on and overwritten, outdated data scrawled-over,
marginalia sprouting like mushrooms after a rain.