Two Poems

By John Hughes

 

Long Distance

 

You call her from town
and know enough about the nature
of phones to prepare in advance
what you are going to say.
You imagine the place
she lives, watch her head
turn toward the ringing,
drying her hands on a dishtowel
as she walks, reaching
for the receiver.
No answer.

 

You picture her sitting
cross-legged on the couch,
listening to the ringing,
but looking at her nails,
knowing it is you, wondering
why you don’t hang up, why
you stand green and red
in the 7-11 lights, listening
to a phone ringing miles away.

 

Ecology

 

Some days the air is white
with words, the ground icy-hard
and slippery. I toe-skid
to the sheer brink of line breaks
and swing my arms round,
slapstick. Autumnal, the variations
and winter dieback reveal
titles hammocked in the upper-
most branches of slickskinned
trees.  Sometimes I try to pelt
them down with rocks.  Or,
stampeded by zebras of choice,
I run home empty-
pocketed. 

Published January 2008