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.