Telegraphing

Standard

I was just about sure

my words would always

go unheard.

Dots and dashes

between two cans

intertwined.

Who’s to say

the notes will make it there,

or side-wind

through one ear and out the other,

or bounce around

inside your skull.

Know what I mean?

Trapped in the highest spire

of our respective mind palaces.

No runway,

no helipad,

we’ll have to drop each other

a line.

Our words

will run along

the overgrowth.

May we drink wine,

tell tall tales

and catch up —

even when we’re far away.


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