The Weight of a Line

The click came, precise.

It cut the air, a knife

through something thin.

He talked about the drain, the estimate,

the exact make of the part.

No pause for breath.

No opening. No space to land

a word of my own.

I held the receiver, warm still

against my ear, then heavy

in my palm.

It was just a tool,

like his wrench, for fixing things

that broke, not for finding

what wasn't there.