Catastrophe Jones

I wake up alone, and

it isn’t new, but
it is earth shattering
every time.
The bed is always cold on that side,
cold enough it tries to pull the heat from me.
You’re somewhere far, and

I haven’t been able to reach you.
It isn’t new, but
it is earth shattering
every time.
There’s an echo in the phone line,
the land line I keep —
the land line of yours that I keep.
I had to get a new phone.
I had to get three new phones.
I have stopped crushing them
when they are wrong numbers,
spam callers,
robots asking for me.
The last one I had to replace
because it asked for you.
I thought maybe it meant I was closer.
I thought maybe it meant you were closer.
It’s getting colder now, and

the fire escape has had
the first eyelashes of frost on it,
the chipped paint and

rust shivered with
fractals of ice whispers.
I slept out on it the night before, and

woke a little before dawn,
to climb up to the roof and
lay out on the tiles and

stare up and

up and

up, and

let the tears come.
They aren’t new.
I’ve lost the flow of it, I think, and

I’ll have to start

again.

You whimper, a kicked dog
but refuse to stay
instead playing dead at my feet.
I could help you

if only you would
bare your throat
to bear my collar.

The mewling
isn’t warranted, you know.
I’ve never raised a hand to you
because you don’t want
that sort of petting.

So you say.

A pity.

Should I believe
your bark, then?
Or should I believe
the puppy eyes turned my way
whenever you’re tongue-lolling
for a morsel of affection?

Down boy.

Heel.

Stay.

It’s not a thundering

but a rhythmic stutter,
a seizing beat,
a rapidfire-horse-hooves-in-the-mud kind of pounding,
like it could
break through
its bone cage,
a strange clattering
of opened-wing hopes
and clutched-talon fears,

a gasping,

reaching,

aching

kind of pulse,
a throb
with force enough to
bend backs
and weaken knees,
with power enough
to raise gods
and topple empires,

this whole,
this thing,
this heart,

and

in its echoing chambers,
the name it sings
is yours.