--

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.