Her voice suggested nudity,
but only just barely.
There were pauses – imperfect
in their inflection.
There was the sound
of traffic coming
in from outside.
From inside the
detox center; the last
word from Tom.
Unopened records left
on the shelf: The love
songs she wanted me
to hear
so desperately.
The books she gave
to me, with her hand-written
notes on Post-Its
filling out the bulk
of their pages, stuffed.
“Yeah, let’s have
lunch.
______Anywhere you
want.”
