Curve Ball
Paul calls at one a. m.
I can’t sleep, he says.
Are you okay?
I thought the virus would be over.
Like a flash flood from a storm
that tears away a few shingles.
We switch from phones
to FaceTime.
A spoon barely projects out of
a carton of ice cream.
He wears his Cubs cap in bed.
His eyes dart to and from the camera.
I needed to be sure of you.
I sent a check for the fifty bucks I owe you.
This goes on for an hour.
I fix a snack of cheese and crackers.
I pour a glass of almond milk.
I get seven words in edgewise.
After Paul hangs up I fall back to sleep,
dream us playing catch.
A green baseball with little red prongs
that sticks to our fingers for the filthiest curve ball.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
