You still have the blackberry she bought you.
You've seen the new ones--
The ones that turn on their sides
With sliding keyboards--
But you haven't gotten one.
The two numbers programmed in
Haven't rung since the owners shifted,
New phones and new answers.
You only called once,
A quiet plea for conspiracy,
Manhattan's drill head
Marlon Brando's living breath,
Answered with voices planted in ground
Or standing, corporeal, below the stars.
You purchased that movie the other day,
The recommendation and warning,
Though you have yet to watch it in full.
The last scene you saw, he saw with you
And you remain uncertain if you could stomach the audio-visual memory.
You cannot, after all, hiccup without tears.