Stir Fry Poem by Kewayne Wadley

I was mute.
Responding to the silence in-between the dial tone.
A new proposal of a new unlimited data plan.
I don't know how many gigs equate to the amount of anticipation.
Sitting in silence.
Phone pressed against my ear waiting to the sound of your voice.
The smell of stair-fry coming from an oval pan.
The smell of darkened beef and steamed vegetables sizzling by a pot of rice.
Boiling over in anticipation