Delivered

I put it in the drawer.

That lasted four minutes.

Now it's face-down on the counter

and I keep touching the back of it —

the warm glass, like checking a forehead

for something I don't want to find.

Three days since Sunday.

The word delivered sitting there

like a package left on a stoop

in the rain, nobody home.

I wrote seven sentences.

I deleted four and wrote them over.

I hit send before I could second-guess

whether I was using the word "sorry" right.

The counter is cold.

My hand is two inches above the phone.

I'm not picking it up.

I'm not picking it up.

I'm going to pick it up.