sock sorting saturday

your poems make me
sad, make me cry
sometimes, she says
over her walkie
talkie. she's in
the woods, hiking
rag mountain. a bee
just stung her, and
it's starting to
rain. i wished you
would have come
with me. i know,
i tell her, and if
it wasn't sock
sorting saturday
i would have. why
aren't you using
your phone, i ask
her. i like to use
my walkie talkies
when i'm hiking,
she says. well, you're
crackling, and i
can hardly hear you.
what are you eating.
granola bars, she
says, and i brought
some oreo cookies,
and some juices. so,
as i was saying, she
says. can't you write
me a happy poem,
a sweet poem without
angst and sadness,
about love ending,
and leaving and all
of that junk you
write about all the
time. can you do that
for me sweetie pie?
i'll try i say, i'll
give it a shot. what's
that noise? thunder,
she says, lightning
just hit a tree up
ahead and i think it's
on fire. maybe
the rain will put it
out. oh my, there goes
a raccoon with a
foamy mouth, i think
he's hungry, come
here little fellow,
have a cookie.