The Polite Decline

I thought we had a history that meant

I could ask for ten minutes, maybe fifteen,

to help me move the heavy stuff or just

to listen while the walls came down,

but your voice went flat, a dial tone

with a college degree, smoothing out the edges

of your refusal with words like bandwidth

and capacity and honoring your space.

I hung up before you could finish the lie

and now I’m looking at the black mirror

of the phone, seeing my own forehead,

greasy and red, shining back at me

like a warning light.

I was a line item you deleted

to keep the spreadsheet clean.