Still Here, Still Holding

I pressed call. Not a ring. That tone —

steady, long, the continuous drone

of a line that's there but nobody's on.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Three years gone

from that number, apparently.

No message, no forwarding, just the free

and even hum. I held the phone

up to my ear. That tone. Alone

in the specific way of waiting

for something that won't — abating

nothing. I stayed on almost a minute.

I know how that sounds. Nothing in it

but the sound. No click, no voice.

I wasn't expecting — I had no choice,

I just held on. The tone went on.

Even-keeled. Patient. Gone

was the wrong word, I kept thinking.

Not gone — just somewhere, blinking

in a city without that number.

The tone. The bed. The long unencumbered

hum of a line with nobody home.

I hung up eventually.

Sat there.

              Set down the phone.