In the Parking Lot

I text him:

Give me a call?

By the time I get home

there’s still no reply.

Helloooeeee?

Nothing.

After dinner

I call his cell,

leave a message.

“We need to talk.”

Nada.

I’m mad

and worried

at the same time.

There should

be a name for this

                          Morried? Wad?

I dial again, hang up.

Should I call the house?

Anger and sadness

compete inside me.

It’s a tie.