Distance

A phone vibrates across the small, crooked table
like a fly in its last struggles,
trapped between glass and closed blinds
where the sun shines on and stops.

Nine missed calls, three voicemails
all saying the same thing, no doubt.

Miles around me and just down the hall glowing yellow
beneath my locked door, everyone sleeps.
But across the ocean where hurricanes are born,
someone is drinking coffee and kissing two kids goodbye
in the same area code as you.

I tape the filter back onto my last cigarette,
the final puff tastes of factories and office cabinets.

The fly died hours ago.
You gave up, I should have answered.
But what does a shaman tell the village
when the spirits shake their heads?