Thumbs Up

Three weeks I gave him before I called again.

He said he'd look. I wrote the date. He didn't.

I sent a photo of the stain—and then

he sent a thumbs-up. Nine PM. He wouldn't

know the stain's moved. He didn't respond.

One tap, blue bubble, nothing else. I stared

at it too long—this small blue oval bond

of nothing. I thought: someone should have cared.

The stain is shaped now like a state out west,

flat, brown-edged, moving toward the light.

I'm not calling again. I've done my best

with polite. It's almost midnight.

I put the phone down. The ceiling keeps going.

I don't know what a third message would do.

The stain moves where it moves. Slow. Knowing.

The thumbs-up sits there. Small. Still blue.