ManicDDaily

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.)