CALLER OF MY MONDAY NIGHTS

Caller of my Monday nights,

you who ring at 7:30 and speak sparingly, until we set

the dreamed-of assignation. And you who stride up the wide and empty street at 11:00, silent yet effortlessly

eloquent, like the liquid-syllabled moon, whose gorgeous rising I watch as I wait on the porch for you.

Caller of my Monday nights, eager and young, and pleasingly awkward, you who smile knowingly

before we slip together

into the azure vase of the vestibule

or down into the cool, painted webs

of the cellar-and you

who must depart promptly afterwards

at 11:30,

because you are so tired, and must sleep...

Caller of my Monday nights, vanishing visitor, long after you stride away

under the dimming streetlights,

there lingers on my lips

drops of sweet moon,

and on my hands,

golden sparks of night.

Michael E. Schrader

17