Which do I dread more?

Which do I dread more?
The longing to call or the weight and pressure I must apply to stop myself from calling
I know that my heavy imagining cannot compare to the sound of your cement voice
The slow uncoiling of your resolve breaks like clay springs
“Finally!” you think but do not say
Never angry
Only waiting
“Hello son…how are you?”
I can smell the liniments, I breathe the salve
The slick purple knees shining like lily pads, brown and yellow firmament mounting the edges
I wish I could be in the warm sludge hammock of your hidden resentment that I concoct in my mind in order to assuage my own
I only wish you would say to me, “why don’t you ever call son?”
But you do not
And hovering above, clinging to the pale sapphire molecules of your Oxycodone mornings, every day you say to yourself, affecting her sweet Arkansan drawl, “Good morning son.”
Today I canned some peaches and killed those nasty worms in the tomatoes…you can sleep in this Sunday if you don’t feel like going to church