Keep talking. Just keep talking.
He continues as I stroke his
Tired hair.

We talk and don't talk
and I refuse to glance at the yawning clock
for fear that it will abruptly end.

Say the right thing. It will make him see.
Each moment counts
in the grand tally of the night.

Remember what he said. He meant all that he said.

The night is drained but full of promise.
My friends will all agree.

And yet

I become the prostitute,
Clinging to his crumpled Dockers;
Begging him to stay.
Promising him another hour.

But he leaves and it dawns Sunday.
I have nothing to show for the night
but droopy eyes,
an exhausted bed
and a memory that he has since
opted to forget.


He will tell his people
of his weekend of golf and the sofa,
and i will be omitted,

waiting for the phone's worn-out ring to prove my efforts worthwhile.