thread-bare, your father’s undershirt,
which somehow appeared in your closet
and which I wear, with your blue boxers
at night, unable to sleep, while you are waking
across the ocean, across the seas.
the cell phone connection is scratchy,
delayed — a pause after I speak, before
each response, as if you are needing
to think it over, though your answers
are monosyllabic, ending in sighs.