I call you, out of the blue,

expect you to drop everything,
to talk about my latest poem, my latest project,
my obsession with Mom and her cobalt blue.

I pause to enquire after you,
your significant others, your writing.
Then, I return to me because it’s all about me.

Today I’m feeling remorse.
I’m not this shallow, am I? I’m not this self-absorbed,
am I? Don’t answer that. You don’t,

because you’re so kind. I won’t
call again, until I know you’re OK,
until I know you’re OK and know we will talk

about your latest poem, about your
latest project. I mean, I want to know. I know it’s not
all about me. I’m sorry.

I’m 52; I’m still learning what it means
to be a writer. You know.

~*~

Andrew Shattuck McBride
NaPoWriMo ~ 2013 | My Day 9
April 11, 2013