Friday, November 2


Phone call

Above the static, you were telling me
you found a book on a roadside stand.
Will I read it? I nod, forgetting
you can’t see my head, ascending
and descending in promise.
‘Least that’s what I heard; there is rumble
from a truck or else the miles asserting
the distance of places.
On my end, it is quiet.
The air is a whirl
of freshly brewed coffee. Soft jazz music
wafts from piped in speakers. I was saying
something unimportant
interrupted by interference,
some thunder, and Billy Holiday’s voice
purring a lyric about a hopeless
assignment, tenderly about you,

how you crossed latitudes, your shadow
lengthening over
rainforests and skyscrapers, and all
I have to do is look outside
for your pending darkness.

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