Friday at 6 pm,
another promised call
in your last letter.
This week
I weave
in and out of spaces
left by mobs
cluttering the paths,
breathing in the coming weekend’s relief
after that damned history test.
I hail a taxi
and rattle through highways
congested with rush-hour vermin
lurching
stopping
lunging forward
dodging pedestrians and stray dogs
and a hundred
apathetic potholes.
Finally, I implore the driver
to stop; the walk to the house feels
like forever, thoughts of you
prodding me
faster.
The door gives way
as a shrill ringing propels me inside;
ignoring a stubbed toe,
a bruised elbow from my flight,
I grab the receiver.
My breath is caught
at the sound
of your voice.
Hello’s,
How are you’s,
and
you sound tired’s
haltingly inquired.
Such a waste
on perfunctory greetings
all
for the sake of politeness.
The rustling begins as he asks
about the new puppy
and Aunt Elsie’s move to New York.
I throw to the winds all courtesy
and shout through the noise
whether he missed me.
The line goes dead.
The static could have been there
right from the start.
