It's Poetry Thursdsay

Opportunity

By the time I get time
to call you, it’s too late:
you’re out on a run or
home where I’m never
sure if hearing from me
is what you need right
now with her and them
and supper needing to
be cooked, consumed,
cleaned-up after, her or
someone else craving
your voice for comfort
more, far away as I am
not really alone either
only lonely for an ear
to fill with what I can’t
or won’t say here, so
I dial seven of eleven
numbers, hang up, talk
myself out of the need
to ramble off in all the
directions I do whenever
we talk, if I can recreate
how I feel when you
soothe my restlessness
like nothing else can,
no one else does, I won’t
have to call right now,
too late, give myself
permission to wait till
tomorrow when maybe
I’ll get the opportunity
in time to call you before
everything gets all crazy
complicated like today.