We joke about it. Really, you’re annoyed
To make some call I should make on my own—

It doesn’t bite, you say. That isn’t true.
We keep it on a leash; it isn’t tame.

It stalks us in our sleep. And when at last
Some shy, unbidden happiness arrives

That triggers its alarm, it’s not for you.
I bring it to my head, it speaks my name:

Old anger pours like poison in my ear—
Or information, cool as dates on stone,

Rocks in its smooth, black cradle. I avoid
The thing, because it holds what I most fear:

At any hour, the future or the past
Can dial into the room and change our lives.