Counting lost words

On the loading dock of an unused warehouse
with boarded windows, and crumbled concrete walls
painted blue green,
I stood out of the rain that fell on sodden ice,
fell on yards communed by stripped and dripping bushes.
There were long silences
on the phone
between sobs.
Toes wet in my shoes from road spray
I switched my hands, one at a time,
from the phone, to my cotton pockets, and back,
and waited to speak while trucks passed.
Why does it ever rain in January.