On a moonless night a long time ago, just off the highway, I leaned against a cinder block wall with a payphone pressed to my ear. The only light came from passing cars and a bug-stained fluorescent bulb mounted above the phone. The voice on the other end was bored, disinterested. Across the miles I felt the connection diminishing, no, diminished, no, gone.

I ground my forehead against the wall and tried to sound un-desperate, un-despairing, un-lonely, un-everything I actually felt. At that moment something dropped onto my shoulder and then to the ground – a blob of white putty that turned into an albino frog that then dragged itself away into the weeds. 

That frog and that night still come washing over me sometimes, the way they did when I read this poem.

True Enough, by Jim Moore

         I have forgotten many things.
But I do remember
         the bank of clover along the freeway
we were passing thirty years ago
         when someone I loved made clear to me
it was over.

For more information about poet Jim Moore, please check out his website.