i'll tell you later

you seem distracted
she says, on the phone.
i can hear you typing
in fact. why are you
typing on your computer
while i'm telling you
something very important
about us. so i stop.
what, i ask her, what
is it that you want to
say. then i start typing
again, because i'm in
the middle of writing
a poem about her talking
to me on the phone, and
about to tell me something
of great importance about
us and the future of our
relationship, but i can't
finish the poem until
she tells me what she
has to say, and what
is so important. so i ask
her again, and stop and
say, what. tell me. and
she says, never mind. it's
no big deal. it's just
that, that, and then
she drifts off and i
hear her washing dishes
in the sink, banging pots
and pans around. so i
write that down too.
just tell me, i say again.
what kept you up all night
and made you call me so
early in the morning.
i'm shaking my head now,
but still typing. i hear
the water running and
the dishwasher go on in
her kitchen. i'll tell
you later, she says. we
can talk about this at
dinner. so i stop typing
and say, well. okay.
see you later then.