in which I enjoy being put on hold

March 13, 2007

A beat like spokes and a melody
like a neon disc skimmed through waves.
The phone rests over my ear, I look out
to the street, car windows

filled with wire reflections touching
one another like a tryptych. In a living room
a tv image spins, too far away to see anything
but colour. It’s blue and I’m drawn to the sky.

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