Talk to Me

Robert Allen

February 2, 2025

I know exactly why I fell in love.

The sound of your voice entranced my young ear

and I loved listening. Over the phone, late

at night—remember what we talked about?

I don’t, anymore. There’s a squeaking sound

a windmill makes, like the one on the farm

where Dad was raised. A big round water tank

stood next to it, and the blades of its fan

were always turning, always producing

that distinctive noise as it powered the pump

that sucked the water up, a sound both strange

and familiar, echoing like your voice,

though now I suppose I’ve offended you

again, and sadly not for the last time.

Sometimes I wish you’d tell me a story.

Maybe you’ve always told fabulous tales

and as you say, either I don’t listen

or I hear them only selectively.

Okay, then. Don’t talk to me. We’ll just keep

doing what we’ve been doing: I will pen

my bad love poem and you will crochet

a Santa’s load of afghans—or we could

taste the air and see which way the wind blows.

Robert Allen lives in San Antonio with his wife, two children, two cats, and five antique clocks. His poems have appeared in Voices de la Luna, Texas Poetry Calendar, di-verse-city, and TPA. He loves cardio-boxing, hates throwing things away, and facilitates the in-person Open Writers Lab at Gemini Ink.