No one is here today, the streets
fill with rain, drops echo in long puddles
near the walls. I am talking to you again
but you don’t hear.
In my childhood there’s a room
where I sit in bed listening to the radio, un-
raveling the edge of a blanket with my lips. The blue
twilight darkness, heavy and soft as wool, trains
jumbled in a box, a tin
horse galloping forever,
then sleep—I think about this often.
without anyone. Tell me what your life is like, call.
Sometimes I dial your number in a rich Jersey town
and can’t speak. I know what to say,
but there are
times when I’m sure I can
cross the street and go up and find you
sprawled on the floor studying, playing records,
smiling because I’m there. There are times,
and we grow distant over the years, and live
somebody’s life, ask nothing, and live.
© Stephen Berg