The Cell Phone

Okay, it's not as lame as it sounds. It's an object/person poem and is named after the object, but the person's so cool it takes away the lameness of the object. Anyways, hope you like it...:D

He walks down the dark

alleyway in New York,

looking for "Tiger," or Scott

Hochip, the newest criminal on

the list.

He's wearing all black--

jeans, tight T-shirt, and

boots. He has his green 

contacts out so his eyes are

his natural gray. His short-

cropped brown hair is covered

with a black baseball-team cap,

so he looks like any regular

New York punk-kid.

At the age of 22 he can easily pull

that off.

Something rustles and he whips

around, ready to fight or defend.

Nothing's behind him but a couple

rats and a drunken hobo lying

unconscious, but if he had ignored it,

it could've meant death.

Walking down the alleyway a bit

more, he runs into the warehouse

where Scott is supposedly staying.

Don't ask how he knows that.

He looks into a window, and sees

the man standing over his next victim.

The man's a murderer and a rapist, and

he's done it to children all over the country

for years without anyone catching him. Now

the guy will finally be caught.

He leans against the wall and takes out his

basic black, government issued cell phone,

calling me on it, knowing I'll answer and

come running no matter how far away I 

am. The phone, he guesses, could symbolize

his spy life where he can't tell anyone about

anything that goes on in this half of his life,

except me, of course. If you want to be poetic

about it.

Though, he only thinks it symbolizes, well, nothing.

A phone. That's all it is, a phone. A communication 

device.

Holding it up to his ear, he has just connected with me

when the phone, and the building, blow up, blowing 

him, Scott, and the victim to bits.

It was his idea, I just followed through with it, even though

I didn't want to.

Author's Note

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