Can you hear that?
He held the phone to the weather, I could hear
a live broadcast of Spanish rain, could only imagine
being marooned in that restaurant for two hours;
sandals, by the end of the week, falling apart.
Enough. That mobile: its future.
Well, the rain passed, heat resumed.
Mad moment rowing; irrigation channels inland,
having steered round a stubborn island of rushes;
past beautiful boys getting it on,
a dip forward, somehow, meant
his phone slipped out of his shirt pocket.
Did it jump
or was it pushed?
All my texts sink, little hearts palpitating,
expire in a series of weary oooooos.
Smileys, a whole folder, unused,
give up the grin, grimace, gurn,
go down. Numbers stream out of sequence
like a daft alphabet.
Listen, it’s trying to ring.
It’s crying! Your voicemail refuses to click on
at first then does. We hear you overground,
on the speaker-phone, sounding how you never were
and, babe, so much more.