Cooking for one is a chore
Eating in silence chokes
Watching television turns a bore
After days of not stepping out.
Alone at home,
Awaiting your call
Your old mother spends
Many an hour and days.
Far away in the land of chrome and light
From the world of meetings and targets
A promise of a return call furthest from your mind….
You head for a beer with your teammates.
And then you look at your watch
Remembering the promised call
It is too late, you mutter
And sleep soundlessly in your bed.
Across the seas, your mother
Wakes up worried if all is well
As there is neither a message
Nor a return call.
Originally published in Spillwords