You could call me late
and not say a word
and I’d know it was you.
I’d never tell anyone.

Instead, I’d lie in bed
under the lamp and listen
for your breath or
your pulse, and, not hearing
a thing, I’d know

what you wanted to say
starting from the first time
it rained outside your bedroom
as a child and

your mother wasn’t there
to coo to you,
up until your current loneliness
in the suburbs, appeased
somewhat now by
your new dog.

I’d know it as well
as if I were looking in your
window as the wind made
the curtain billow inward
and saw you on the phone

not talking, not daring
to voice what I already knew
way before I knew you,
staring back at me
as the rain let down
its first cold drops.