You're doing something else

It's a comfort
Calling your phone
And always knowing,
Like clockwork,
That your answering machine
Will always come up,
So I can talk to an apathetic,
Inanimate object,
A blinking red dot in your chronological
Timeline of what next to do,
When I should be talking to you.
It's a comfort when
I miss you and the only trace
Of your damn voice
Is a trail of repeated enunciations,
That I always know will
Always answer,
Instead of you.
Whenever I think about it,
It's simple, because
I know you're off somewhere,
Completing a mission,
Circumventing a purse snatcher,
Fucking some wench
Up the back pipe,
You're doing something else
obviously
That requires me to leave that message
Like a note on the front door,
And never expect a reply,
Because
Obviously
You're doing something else.