phone home

I will call you today
From a phonebox somewhere,
Revelling in the anonymity.
I have a quarter in my pocket,
But it will work
Despite being foreign currency
(foreign as the sound of your voice
half forgotten symphonies,
and honeyed apologies).
I want to resign,
And overnight, a major reshuffle
Tells me it is worthless,
What I do for people,
And closes all my options.
My stomach hurts again
And this is due to hunger
(j'ai faim, they say,
because this is not my country).
The coin is heavy,
Weighty in my hand.
It seems momentous
That I intend to keep my hunger
For hearing your voice,
Which, sweet as it is,
Is full of sweet nothings.