Each morning
close to ten.
I get a call from Egypt,
                                        or India.
Exotic places, that I will never see.
Flooding with people I will never meet.
                                But Ahmed calls everyday.

When the phone rings, and I see the number.

I want to sing him a song.

                       Picture message him masterpieces.

                                                           Text him epics.

In a sea of instant hang-ups,
              and hot-headed drunks.
                      Poverty stricken parents,
                                                    and last straw leaps.

In the ocean of anger and grief,
I want to be the voice that reads poetry.