Love is calling me on the phone.
I watch it ring, wait for it to go
to voicemail, but it doesn’t.
Love calls again and again,
eight times in twenty minutes,
then silence.
I am suspicious of Love.
Sometimes it’s really Hate calling,
or Anger, pretending to be Love.
I would have answered anyway,
but I am having coffee with Indifference.
Afterward, I have an appointment with Death.
It was the only time he could fit me in this year.