at three a.m. I let it go
five, six, seven times
then pick it up on eight.
It's the wrong number, again.
Someone wants Sylvia.
They want her to come to the phone.
Every night it's the same.
I tell them she's in the shower,
she's on the toilet,
she's taking a goddamn cake
out of the oven,
she's crocheting me a sweater.
I yell out her name
in the darkness of my apartment,
Sylvia, oh Sylvia,
but she's always busy
when they call.
I make sure of that.
She's making a good home here
for the both of us.
I want them to know that.
It seems important.
Takes the edge off.
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