He calls and
I do not answer
so it becomes
a red missed
call, a blot
of scarlet
like I’ve tried
to stick a
plaster on
a bleeding
knee too early.
He is probably
angry, like
the woman
opposite me,
tapping her
foot to the
vapid music
of the train.
I take out
my diary
and strike silver
through today.
It is over.
The day has
slid into
the envelope
of night.