Sorry, sorry, the title of this post is a bit misleading. The poem is about picking up the phone, not picking up in a bar. However, bloggers like stats; provocativeness improves stats; and well, I’m sure you are picking up the gist of this.
All that said, here’s the poem:
When you don’t pick up
One reason I hate so much
the times you don’t pick up
is that they throw me into
a certain (but I hope distant)
moment in which you are truly gone
or I am gone, when whichever
of us is left will have
no one to call, though perhaps
we will still call–knowing me, I won’t
be able to stop–but we
will have no one to answer, though certainly
you will try out of steadfast love
to answer, and me because I can never
shut up–but still, it will not
be an answer that says,”I’m coming,
I’m almost there,” or if it does, it will
be that rather tricky coming of
the nearly departed, which, of course,
is not what either of us want exactly,
at least
not at this present moment,
which
is why I really do wish
you’d stay near a phone always
so that I could gather up
your sweet hello
every single time I call and know, yes,
that you are coming, yes,
that you are still here.
(All rights reserved.)
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