Morning coffee

[vintagestiletos]

Your voice lingers on the other end of the line
though it's been five days since we last spoke.

And I wonder if they call you by your name
or you're merely given a number
thrown into a pool of anonymity
--a code.

And I set here
sucking in breath like wasting the rain
like waiting for a message
a call
a telepathic teardrop hinting tomorrow
--or yesterday.

I find my muses in odd places these days
stuck between the teeth of rabbis
and other poets
like waiting for a kiss
or a message
--or a call?

Lurching forward to grasp familiar arms
distinguishing want from need
from heart
from soul
from the bottom of a coffee cup
that so gracefully holds my tears.