morning phone call

i’ve awoken him
and he says come over
in a throaty voice
half-dreaming he talks about zombies
then snaps to and
remembers it’s me
remembers i can’t come
i think i hear relief
i subject him to morning ramblings
better than midnight ones
he’ll leave me where the guitars play
i speak of redemption
and debauchery
he accommodates
and i wonder where he was
when i was chasing the dawn
poetry on my mind
he was probably chasing the night

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