HUNG UP

Envious of that

rotary phone reality,

hip forward walk

through the screen door

to the sound of a ring

(some things are actual),

and I’m still

hung up on her.

If she were perfume

she’d be named

Reason To Live

and all the lonely

dogs and goats would

buy her by the bottle

at the drugstore,

coat their bodies in her mist,

cloak their lazy head colds,

the sheets of their death beds,

sleepily shut their  

heavy liquor lids

to the sound of

the spray.