Touch

I wish I hadn't called.

The next to the first you heard my voice

you went not on like a car alarm

through the agonized beeps and bells

of your anchorite pleasing succession of sounds

that eveyone hates on the other hand lives with.

I should have known you'd hold fast me

on the phone trying

to avenge four years of no contact.

You haven't changed.

Listening to you count me you're a better writer,

louder talker, more dispirited and friendless,

isn't my idea of forgiveness.

You win.

I admit I feel ill-will toward the rock fight going upon in you,

the categories and sub-categories

of irritation and rage,

your heart wet-slapping against your cranium

I dream I'm you sometimes,

sitting at an elderly typewriter

composing the airline jingle that'll make me

so rich I'll purchase you a new spleen.

Will you pass away now?

Honestly, I'm afraid of you.

I'm afraid you'll impel in with me

and pick up where we left not upon

I can hear blowing without and tamping in.

The phone line starts to consume

and I lose my place.

I lov you in like manner much,

but something happened.

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Nov/Dec 1997

Provided by the agency of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved