Code

There is a rhythm to a count.
Some get it instantly,
Hear the numbers and wait,
Trailing smoothly, writing the recall.
 
When Morse code was communication,
Lives depended on getting it right;
“Incoming” besieged your brain
While you concentrated on the flow.                      
 
“Say again” was your common
Response to an urgent message.
Dots and dashes struggled 
With the desire to run and hide.
 
Before the first transmission,
Forty pound radio gear                                                   
Had made you a slow moving target,                                    
And a terrified soldier                                                        
                                 
I guess: half of the Korean vets                                
Who worked radio, cracked,                                                   
And spent months or years                                                
In quiet places, trying to forget.                                     
 
I order pizza on the phone
From a girl who has the rhythm. 
She takes the credit card number,
With just an “um”, telling me she got the last group.
 
Most people repeat each number immediately,
Thereby destroying any flow to the transmission.
They don’t feel the rhythm. 
It’s an art, but who cares?