Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry Special Feature |
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Text Message
after Tony Hoagland
The other day in the hard beige center of a classroom,
up to my elbows in pale blue exam books,summer break hovering over my hunched neck,
my thoughts drifted like a beetle in a backyard poolto a friend I'd heard nothing from in months,
a man whose voice always verged on laughing.At the exact moment I imagined him
moseying down his street 1,000 miles away,my phone buzzed like a dragonfly
with eight words from him:Got lost, thinking of you. That is all.
The timing, as if divinely designed,seemed borrowed from a poem I'd memorized
years before, some sonnet's final couplet,the lines I knew to recite slowest, savoring each syllable,
making sure I didn't take for granted the best part.