last night I looked up from my book
at the clock, startled, and I responded Yes
I miss you too.
without even knowing why,
as if the phone had rung unexpectedly
at 11:45pm.

when someone thinks hard about you
from a distance
it is a thing you cannot see or look away from;
it the stillness after a shout, and the image fading -
the empty room becomes instead
the space between you and
the one who has spoken your name
to themselves
on the cold night air, somewhere
someone searching
for the words
they would use if
they thought you were listening,
at 11:45pm.

what good is it?
to hear the shout, to speak
as if spoken to;
sitting alone, with a book
I wonder
not for the first time.
This comes and goes, this ear
like a dog's ear, tuned to the miles
between one breath and
the next.

Billy

a man with grey eyes and long grey hair
wears an earring I'd swear was made of pop-top rings; Billy
blesses me, as I bag his groceries - "You look good, kid."
he's the scarecrow, and the tin man too
loose-limbed, corroded joints, long necked and bony.
he smells of dirty linens, walks like he sleeps on the floor -
he's too long in the spine for anything short of
a queen. And he may well know the needle, or the bottle,
or both; may well dream dreams that are greasy and dark.

But his eyes are full of light and air; full of seas he may have seen.
He says he comes from Houston - big storms there recently. For sure
he's got some miles on him, and some distance in him.
Straight as a rail, he walks all the way home
with his one-bag-full
"Yes, ma'am" he says with a wink, when I say
Take care.