She calls from far away
And I try to ignore her
Lest she ask a question
That I don't want to answer
The shame, the absurdity, the banality, the rigidity, the vulgarity, the deficiency, the obvious and the rote
Are reason enough
Don't give your mother your phone number
They call at civilised hours for very civilised reasons
Well wishing disguises dictates
Just build a clay son
Rendered to your desired design
And leave me alone
But you have never crafted anything now have you?
An A minor chord on an old guitar, a crow call, a rattling window
Hold more life than one of your sermons
Speak now of routine and finance
Tell me about the price of celery
The petty drama of people I do not know
The administration of anodyne things
For the purpose of one more day
I feel sometimes as if I’m reading something not written for me, but for a specific person. I’m not sure why... It’s a very strong position to take, don’t give my mother my phone number (my mother happens to be dead). The resolution is filled with tension--no resolution really. The poem has been pressurized with conflict with a shift to risk-free interactions, celery, etc. I sense powerful emotions. That’s big.