The phone calls me to attention.
An old friend, dead. 89. She had
a “good run,’’ as they say, it was
for the best, whatever that means.
Trumped, quickly, replaced with
wincing news that another’s son
killed himself, jumped off a bridge
too far. Words fail,
repeatedly. Searching for emoticons
in lieu of emotions.
Stir and mix the customary
repetitive political jabber,
echoing indignation.
Where is love? Is it in the stars
above? I sink below, mired in
timeless sorrow, time beyond time.
Multiple failures, fumbles, fright.
Who to “speak’’ to?
God is dead, or so it’s reliably
said. We pull our weight in key strokes.
Hot type. Cold comfort. Worst,
there is none. No one here but
thee, me and meaningless
conversations with ourselves.
Call me. I’ll be there. Forever.
Waiting, but not at home.
Don’t really want to stop
the show, thought you
might like to know. Waiting
for that call. Who’s there?