Postcard from California

I was outside
it’s still hot out there
but I could feel night on the air

My legs felt cool
but the sun was on my face
I squinted back
at my reflection in the sliding glass door

My fingers were warm, clutching the butt,
the cherry was glowing in the afternoon light
I thought I felt my phone buzz in my pocket
and to answer it
I had to switch my smoking hand
and it was like passing a hot coal
I had an instinct to take it very carefully
to brace myself for impact
and prepare for adjustments

Everything went smoothly
so the actualization of pulling up the phone
from the depths of my pocket
and getting a call
became strange and leaded
when I realized that I must’ve imagined it

I wasn’t expecting a call
so don’t tell me
it was some flaw
inherent in all expectations

It happens all the time
I think the thing’s giving me some
single vibrating pulse of acknowledgment
and I reach for it
and it hasn’t done anything
there’s no messages
I’m just making shit up
because apparently
I like to look like
a dick with a technology twitch

But this last time
I sure as day
second-guessed myself
and had to ask
If I’d thought you would’ve called

Make no mistake
every communiqué you make
is a goddamn mess
and you can’t be blamed
if it mixes your mind up a bit

every line you open
ends locked in sorrow