professional phone calls
seeping with the excess of formality
much like the strangers in your living room
who call themselves family
and the only room to breathe exists
in the interludes between conversations
in this limbo
you're sometimes caught
thinking about a girl who doesn't
love you
or the rugged edges of a face
resembling your father's
laps of repetition
dial, pause, voicemail
scripted dialogue left
from the same lips
which never found the right words
sometimes the steady ring
summons expectations of an answer
a voice without a body
to meet your work demands
or the simple silence
drawing you further into the void
marking progress
in tally sheets
tangible records of what you
have and have not done
measured by the 10-5 hourglass
before you're allowed to leave