That call
Has never come
Despite
The knuckle-whitening grip
We have on hope
And
The expectant flutters
That erupt
With each sharp ring
AND
That meeting
Has never been booked
Forgoing
The opportunity
To moderately debate
The points
That pinched
The puckered seams
Of
Our pain
SO
That conversation
Will never take shape
Regardless
Of
How many times
We rehearse our parts
Forming
Rolling syllables
And
Precisely measured pitch
Around
Words
That will never
Be heard
*
PhotoPoetics™ 