I joke over dinner that I get anxiety 
from the sound of a text or call–
but it’s also a half-truth, a relic
of freelance work, the odd hours, 
or the shoe about to drop–you never know
what kind of ill will comes after supper
when folks get mean and wanting something
from you, whatever that thing may be,
I tell them. I can’t tell if it’s a job, some fun,
or a happy accident–this messenger chance
as improbable as their mouth on air
tracing esses, as if suddenly by naming me
I would be wholy formed again.