Please Pick Up

six missed calls,
each time going to your voicemail but never leaving a message
can’t text: I’m driving
as my grandmother would say, responsible,

but my hands are shaking on the wheel like my voice is shaking as I’m cussing you out,
cursing you for not picking up your phone,
which is surely lighting up like the aurora borealis on a dark November night

seven missed calls,
in front of the flashing lights of the train station, the red giving off the warning:
do not pass, danger
how I feel, as my car jolts forward and bumps over the train lines, my steering wonky

but I have places to be and wipe away my tears, the guilt, the terror,
the only remaining is anxiety,
which is clawing at my stomach like a lioness hunting (and capturing) her prey

- - -

prompt 1/30: communication
(or really, the lack thereof)