I took the weekend off from National Poetry Month, but here’s a quick one.
You want to talk to the person. It’s why you called,
to wade into their sorrow, gripping your tether.
But the poignant moment is when you call
and hear their voice,
their recorded voice, their before-voice,
before their dear one slumped to the floor,
before the doctor gave that head-tilt look.
It breaks your heart, they are so cheerful,
reciting that banal modern liturgy
on an unassuming Thursday.