Mouth-feel

I said it to my sister first

over the static of the interstate,

a quick bridge to get off the line

before she asked about my sleep.

Then to the cat,

who was batting a twist-tie

across the linoleum,

a soft, dumb habit of the mouth.

When the door clicked for the night shift,

I said it to his back,

a heavy thing, like a sandbag

against the rising water.

I hung up and saw the smudge,

an oily thumbprint on the glass

where the words went through.