The hands of all have touched my behind, 
invading my personal space like a man 
sitting, smiling, in the women's restroom. Never do I desire 
to have my private parts 
so close to the face of a hairy monster. The BRIIIING 
BRIIIINGG 
BRIIIINGG 
mixed with the clomping
of running feet with leather shoes
is an earthquake of devastating proportion.
A dirty hand, covered in warts 
with yellow, puss-filled pockets, like a cupboard
stashed with commodities from the 1970's, 
grips my waist. "OOOH!" I scream silently, 
as Hand states "hello!" 
Following furious seconds 
of confrontation, Hand slams me 
down upon the wooden table.
Catching breath, moments of rest 
soon are interrupted by an annoying, monotone voice: 
"If you'd like to make a call, 
please hang up and try again." 
Then comes the repetitious rendezvous 
experienced daily with BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP, 
right here; oh dear. 
Waddling from side to side, 
Fatty approaches with a smile. 
His fingers smear sweat 
on my hard, green stomach and back, leaking 
juices on my insides. His breathing, 
slow, heavy, huffy, stinking 
of rotten cheese and squishy peas, 
causes my ears to ring. 
The pressing of my buttons 
makes me giggle with sheer satisfaction. 
I listen 
for the responsive sounds of my fellow brother, 
followed by Fatty's squeaky "Delivery, please." 
Huff, puff, stink, and sweat. Is it over yet? 
"Two large pepperoni, an order of breadsticks, 
and a twenty ounce Sprite." Then I am set 
down on my base unit, once again, 
left alone in a puddle of childish grease
and loneliness. But wait, high-school daughter
(we'll call her "sexy") 
approaches, skimpy, purple lingerie calling out to me 
as she prepares to make a call.
This is the life.

(About this poem:  This is a poem written from the perspective of a telephone.  It's one of my few free verse poems [no rhyme scheme or form]!)