Twenty-two minutes of music.
I put the phone to one side and open the laptop.
I'm in bed, a place for handling numbers.
Patience slips over my shoulders.
The agents voice is there now
searching my list of standing orders
I lean back in the pillows
and close my eyes.
I could fall asleep here.
Dog snores in her basket.
The six thirty comedy winds up
Sinking back the cotton is cool
—he breathes out— I hear how close his mouth
has been to the mic all this time, holding
back air as he searched and now he asks;
Can I put you on hold?