Phone call from Madrid

From Barajas Airport I call you,
on a payphone down a corridor near dirty toilets,
which prove that the Spanish leave shit stains and unflushed urine too.
You answer, sounding like I’ve woken you up,
even though it’s 6am in New Zealand and you’d usually be up for work.
Ah, fuck, that’s right, it’s Saturday for you.
I hope you don’t notice that I sound wrecked,
in crumpled clothes,
which I’ve worn for two days.
Yes, Spain is beautiful, I say.
I don’t tell you that I’ve got diarrhoea and I’m scared of messing the plane toilets.
Or that I’ll go and wash my face then armpits with baby wipes once I hang up.
You tell me no, you can’t speak to the guys, sorry.
They’re asleep.
You sound every second of the 30-hour flight away
from me and my airport world of Starbucks sandwiches and no rubbish bins.
I didn’t even ring to talk to you.
And once I get home
the distance between us won't have changed.