Unlisted

Rain drove me under the overpass on Ashland.

Looked up. White house paint

on dark concrete—a phone number.

No name. No heart. No arrow.

Last digit smeared to nothing.

Four minutes in the dry roar

of traffic overhead.

A number meant for one person

or for nobody. Hard to tell

with paint on concrete.

I didn't call it.

Stood in someone else's

unfinished sentence

until the rain quit.