Your Call

The slick black phone cord,
All tangled in curls,
Shines white in some part,
Truly black, but in pearl.

She whispers to you
With that same soft voice
And you melt in her hand,
The same weak little boy.

The floor is hard,
Planked wood with no cushion,
Your feet rub the boards
Trying to avoid some scuffing.

You whisper to her
With that same steady push,
And you melt in the idea
Of wanting this too much.