Listening

Post "good mornings," I fall into my chair,
pull back my hair and stretch
my headphones over my ears.
Morning talk occupies laughs behind
my thoughts and their absent comings
and goings between mouse-clicks and drags.

The same six songs interject between ads, pop
star sightings and pseudo-political musings --
all weightlessly P.C., offensively empty.

I listen past these things: your conversation is heated
and more interesting than Brittany Spear's
most recent flub or gas prices or presidential sound-bites,
regurgitated.  And your fake Indian accent -- the one
you don't think I hear -- is amusing, refreshingly offensive.

Still,
hanging
on
every
word,
I startle easily when you call for my attention.  You laugh:

"headphones are a girl's best friend."

You have no idea.