You don't care to know who I was.
Your number is a record in my past.
You don't wonder about me anymore.
My number is a vacant line that won't last.
Someone will get it after me—
And why do I care about that minuscule detail?
For the moment, it's because, I called you and didn't leave voice mail.
You don't know if I was leaving a harsh storm outside to weather and
you won't know if I was lying asleep deep on the couch.
You don't know if I was burning bubbles of evaporating liquid outside the kitchen—
Don't worry about me contacting you to complete my wishing.
Of course you won't ever know what was happening to me as my disturbance rang in your ears.
I could have left messages to leave myself clear—
satisfied after your subtle and welcomed action.
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This poem is about apprehensive phone calls.