Dial Tone

Icouldn't imagine
your face behind
that smeared glass,
black phone up toone ear,
your hand pressed up, beckoning
and if I gave you my palm inresponse
I think you'd pull me right through
your fingers like a cowboy'slasso
around
my whole body.
I answer the midnight calls
to muffledmotorcycles and
arguing barflies
and I don't hesitate to hit
the"off" button
when your voice crackles
over the line
like anold record needle
hitting
a piece of dust
over and overagain.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Your words arelike
tar sticking
to the soles of my shoes
in the heat of July
when Istruggle back to my car
with an armful
of your clothes,
after buzzingyour apartment,
301A,
over and over.
The landlord lady glares
atme
through her cigarette smoke
I guess that money
I lent you lastmonth
didn't make it to her mailbox.
Shiny cop cars circle
around theblock
like low-flying vultures
over a stranded lamb.
I throw yourclothes
into my backseat
and wonder why it took you so long
to findyour true love
again,
and I wonder why you keep
calling mecollect,
sick,
and crying.

Today I'll leave
your parking lotbehind me
hearing your dog barking
over and over,
crying from
yourcorner window
'cause it's 5 p.m.
and you're not home
to feedher.