Phone call.
I wonder if the gods see us as river rocks;
slowly grinding and shifting about,
lost aft of the ever present current.
She says this.
I say, I can’t say blame them.
When was the last time we weren’t jawing about our pasts
while leaning toward the future?
Seems the present was made for this.
We pause.
After a wild winter storm passes I am imbibed with a thankfulness,
some vague, illusionary sense of survival.
The world turns white,
though darkness still falls at day’s end.
I’d like to think if I were a color
I’d be the blue of distant mountains,
a shade we’re prone to always see through.
I hang up the phone,
looking at the device in my hand like it were a poet,
able as it is to transcend simple poem.
