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.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
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.
