. . . — — — . . .

The phone rang once.

Or maybe it was the hum of the fridge.

I keep reading your Morse in the machines

Beep, beep, beep, . . .

Dah, dah, dah, — — —,

Beep, beep, beep, . . .

~

In my mind you’re one hand on the door,

Feet on the floor,

Eyes wide,

And a mouth fresh as the tide,

Coming in.

~

But Memory is a bad electrician—

She tapes my exposed wires,

Black and sticky round the same socket,

And I get shocked every time.

~

Sometimes you return

in the smell of burnt toast,

Or an empty chair at the DMV,

Where strangers cough like punctuation.

~

I keep tuning in,

Adjusting the dial,

. . .

— — —

. . .

Forgetting your ship had gone out.