Petite Pathétique

by Bill Bowler

I’m such a dope. It’s such a joke,
waiting for the phone to ring,
giving in to hopeless hope
and trying to think of other things,
things I think I have to do,
and thinking only always you.

The phone rings several times, of course,
and each time, hopeful, up I jump.
It’s for the landlady, or worse,
the anticlimactic wrong number.
So I decide that I’ll call you,
it’s just from pride that I refuse,
I’m probably wrong on what our plans were,
but if I call, I’m afraid you’d answer,

“Oh, yes, hello, Bill.
I’m sorry, but about
the opera, tonight is out.
My boyfriend’s here in London still."

And maybe it isn’t even him.
Maybe it’s just the line’s so thin,
it’s difficult for me to tell,
probably it’s just something else
came up. You had no chance to call,
our plans were tentative after all,
and who are we? Just casual friends,
but what a sad way to end,
to never hear your voice again.