Empty Inbox

Not okay?  When did that become a choice?
I don’t recall being asked what I need.
Empty in-box, no one writes, silent voice.
No one listens, reads, hears, knows if I plead
For time or love or quick touss’ling of hair,
Light touch or affectionate glance my way.
I don’t dare dream love will be written there:
No love, just a shared song or phrase, just play.
Love’s too large, too much to risk, too much pain
To endure with just this dim lighted screen
And its reproachful “No new mail!” refrain
Twice or thrice or more an hour as I lean,
Still hoping someone’s now written to me –
A note or mere few words that read kindly.

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