Phonebook In A Motel Drawer

I looked you up
in this phonebook
to see your name in print.
Here you are:
your first name sheltered
by your last and Maple Road
like panelling, a fireplace,
hot coffee and two mugs.

The seven magic numbers
an incantation
to unhouse you,
to change this plastic rattle
in my hand into your voice.

I’m appalled.
You list your mysteries
for any fool to see.
I will not call.