I never call — the phone goes both ways — you call only to complain
I drive home, you show me your plants in the garden and I admire your patience and how much joy the blooming flowers bring you and how happy you look amidst your green paradise.
You refuse to call him by his new name — what do you think? — I think your daughter is your son.
You tag along to my doctor's appointment, I tell you about my friends in the car, you're happy about my life in the big city
You're sad I'm leaving so soon again, I can't stay any longer











