Friday, February 01, 2008

Long Distance

In the dim kitchen
She bends over
Rinsing towels

Tears drip from
That stubby nose
He can’t help
But see

That secret face
Closed and silent
Too far to reach
As if his

Hand hesitates
Lifting the phone
To call, to ask

But he sees
Hunched shoulders
Lips pressed thin,
She looks like

A ticking suitcase
Abandoned in a terminal

Better call
The bomb squad
Than put his hand
On the latch
And open
An explosion

He puts his hands
Safely in his
Back pockets
And backs away.

As if his
Hand hesitated
Lifting the receiver,
But hangs up
Without dialing

He turns away
Better not to ask
Better not to dial
At all


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