Often, within this edifice of stone,
I lose the blasted signal on my phone.
Right in the middle of a rave or rant,
The other voice (“You there?”) gets oddly scant.
Depending on the time and day and case,
I may leave here to find a better space;
Or I may stay, decline to call again,
Reserve my battery, and spare my kin.
I have discovered what may seem absurd:
It is enough to talk and not be heard.
Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her work has recently appeared in Carbon Culture Review, Mezzo Cammin, and Tar River Poetry.