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.