It’s 10am in Seoul, and
I need remission for
My absolute sins,
But
No amount of lukewarm water can
Wash away the ink staining my fingers.
Pick up.
I haven’t shaved in days, and
I look good with my hair
Tucked behind my ears.
But
I have bruises on my chin, and
I can’t stand my two left feet.
Pick up the phone.
I look in the mirror, look away to
Find concrete skies and
Boundless telephone lines,
But
The city is lost, relling ’roundabout
Behind my tired eyes.
Please, pick up.
I’m blind in my left eye, and
I haven’t quite been in
My right mind,
But
You could lick the salt from my teeth.
Bring color back into my cheeks.
Please, pick up the phone.
I never did believe in
Wonderwalls or
Sunday morning calls,
But
For one refrain. I dream your
Ostinato voice, slam my head.
Waiting for that noise.
So please—pick up the phone.
