I can’t let go of you. I stuff you away. In my back pocket. Mingled with lint. Mingled with spare change. For the laundry that never gets done. For the phone call to you. From one of those booths. With the missing receiver. With the page torn out of the directory. The page with your name. Your phone number. I can’t reach you. I can’t let you go.
You are
the dirty laundry,
the unanswered dial tone.
published in Iceberg's Poetry
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