write me a poem
she says on sunday
afternoon
while she sits in her office
fingers at the keyboard.
typing, adding numbers,
her eyes on a graph
the red line going up
then down again.
hoping to put things
in the black. write
me something sweet and
nice she says, as her
other phone rings,
and she says hold on, no
wait, can i call you back.
write me that poem,
she says, then hangs up.
so you go out into
the field to lie in the sun
and see what shapes
the clouds have, or lack.