Time Difference

I do not like
being at the mercy of telephone rings,

counting them, knowing after enough of them,

I will not speak to him before sleep.

There is a time difference.

Even though I have not a speck of an idea what it is

that I am doing with him, seeing as how he lives 

1,500 miles away in a town I ran
1,500 miles away from,
I call.

At times, growing in regularity, I find myself reaching

for the towel of relief.
Relief from the ravaging of my brain for an answer

that is buried in a small crevasse in my heart,
which knows exactly what it is I am doing with him.

That small crevasse has a small stream, where there 

was once a canyon, and before it became dry,

it was filled with waves of youthful whims, 

the current of which was strong enough and 

far reaching enough, to have once carried me 

from Kansas City to Chicago.

People tend to dry out when exposed to already parched hearts,

and mine has nearly dried in my pursuit of a solitude.
I found it.

But there is a small fissure in my heart

and in it a dying stream,

and sometimes he fills a bucket 

and pours himself into that stream,

and I for him.

That stream,

it knows the answer
but I do not.