Somewhere on the desk,
between the computer, the sketchbooks, the coffee,
lies the telephone.
The floor is a mess.
Containers of take-out Chinese,
junk mail, old bills.
Tempting to sift through a miniature hill
and find that old men’s magazine,
the one with that “Keeping a Scorecard” article.
But then the phone rings.
Knowing who it is,
the eyes look up, quickly.
Not unlike those mornings in Catholic school,
Where, once buried in a book,
All of a sudden ready to pray.
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