Thursday, June 05, 2008

Lucia

You call me
at one in the morning,
asking if we
can be friends now,
if enough time
has passed.  
You tell me you think
I'm a good person,
except the word
"person" has too
many "r"s.  I can see
you are making
an effort; you have saved
your last beer for the end
of this conversation.  
I know it's right
next to your knuckles
on the table-- you keep
touching it accidentally.
I have so little
to say;  I tell you
it's raining again
and the black terrier
you gave away
in June died
of cancer
last week.

3 comments:

Michael said...

Like this on a lot!

oniongirl said...

your work is a feast, perhaps a journey that began with a random click - and i'm almost afraid to travel too deeply into it tonight. i may not sleep until i've gobbled all the word miles like a sweet-toothed child.

oh. i should have studied; loved my books and rules - so that i could write this way, rather than in mad slashes of post teen angst without structure.

you have a gift.

Christine said...

Thanks, Michael, and Oniongirl -- welcome!

It was hard to keep it this spare.