Underground

My brother called.
It was a butt dial by his smart phone.

I said hullo to his denim hip pocket
and heard the metro train pull to a stop.

I rode with him on the Orange line
from Balston station to Federal Triangle.

Its the most we’ve shared
in several years.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

postscript

My brother and I communicate more than this poem suggests. Four to six times a year. Not much compared to many families I know. It works for us.

It is true that I get butt dialed calls from him often enough for me to jot this poem down. The frequency has decreased in the past year or two.

Love & Light

Kenneth

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