When Your Death Was Fresh
Bobbie Andes
When your death was fresh
I picked up the phone to call you
as if things were normal but they weren't.
Your laugh remains with me like old shoes
I can't part with.
Years have piled up like
weeks of unwashed laundry.
I want to have that lunch now,
the one that I couldn't make and had to cancel
when there was plenty of time.
But now when I go to pick up the phone to call you
I stop and remember the messages
I left on your answering machine
that you never heard.
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