Conversations

Father's call coincides with
the morning's first cup of coffee,
The clinking of spoon meeting china
a perfect match
for the ferrous brittleness in his voice.

It is raining here, he says,
been raining for days now,
almost like God wants to wash us away.
Everywhere, there is water, dirty and formless.
My clothes do not dry,
Old aches have returned with a refreshed fury.

Going anywhere is a problem.
It is difficult to drive through the mud. The goddamn
vegetables have become too expensive. Suddenly,
it seems like he chokes a sob. I am
missing your mother, he says. She will
be back in a week, I tell him.
He only sighs.

Are you traveling this week? Where
to? For how many days? It is raining here.
Everywhere, father, I reassure him. And tell
him that I must hang up, now. It is time to
go to work. I am so tired, son, he says.

I hang up the phone. It is time to complete
this conversation. And tell myself:
Me too, father. Me too.