A Cup Of Coffee

I would have loved him
in any era, in any dark age; I would take him,
slide my fingers through his hair and sing songs to him
As it is, this afternoon, late
in the twentieth century, I sit on my bed
still wearing my pajamas with my phone on my lap, pressing
the replay button on voice notes
over and over, listening to his voice
along with birds outside my window
as they balance themselves on cable wires
and stare off into the trees, thinking
even in the farthest future, in the most
distant universe, I would have recognized
this voice, as it would be, like light
from a small, uncharted star.