A Short Poem About An Earlier Era

We got off the phone an hour ago, agreeing that you’d pick me up.
Then my mother said I
couldn’t
go
out.

You’ve been traveling the distance ever since
and I
am waiting by the front door
for you to arrive
only for me
to have to tell you
to turn around
again.

It’s
cold.

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About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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