| Till He Calls |
Nothing makes any sense tonight,
I miss the brittle of his voice
When he’s not here.
I have two telephones,
One is wrapped in sleek black,
Composed of neon lit push-buttons
And an antennae that juts out
As if in search of some radio-waved voice.
The other is thick and turquoise blue,
Shaped like a handbag
Looking much like a relic from the seventies,
‘dream a little dream of me,’
Mama Cass knows what I mean.
I wait for the bells inside to jingle,
The lines aren’t dead, the dial monotone,
The tip-tap of a faucet drips somewhere,
It counts the seconds till he calls.
Appearing in Deeper Than Pink, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2009
I miss the brittle of his voice
When he’s not here.
I have two telephones,
One is wrapped in sleek black,
Composed of neon lit push-buttons
And an antennae that juts out
As if in search of some radio-waved voice.
The other is thick and turquoise blue,
Shaped like a handbag
Looking much like a relic from the seventies,
‘dream a little dream of me,’
Mama Cass knows what I mean.
I wait for the bells inside to jingle,
The lines aren’t dead, the dial monotone,
The tip-tap of a faucet drips somewhere,
It counts the seconds till he calls.
Appearing in Deeper Than Pink, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2009
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |