A split screen showed the two of us,
one of those conversations with no

content apart from the usual checking in.
They gave me sixteen minutes, you said,

to make this call; then I understood
you needed permission from where you were.

The room around you was a den
with a white paper lantern overhead,

the sofa and the bookcase, but no door.
You wore a baggy sweater and corduroy slacks.

Sure, it was a dream, but even so
you put down the phone so soundlessly.