I hear your voice pick up, but it verbs out changes in weather, the

exclamation point of cat at the kitchen window to my questions. 

Someday I’ll rotary dial and you’ll answer without spinning in circles,

straightforward as a signature without the stammer from a raised pen.  I

would write, I guess, but television talks me through the hours, and I am

stunned that everybody else’s life is a mess.  No please no thank you no

instruction in the absolute of fingers resting on the stem of a wineglass. 

Plates and closets to the brim with bad taste.  Besides that, no fine

papers in the shops, tour groups of summer locusts having picnicked on

the five trees, my beloved live oaks, leaving them for litter. No wonder

language is always scratching to get out of me. 



Nancy Esposito


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