Telephone (or Why You Must Always Fill The Tank)

I heard what you said,
on the telephone.

She didn't look at me,
I ignored the slight
twitch
she had in her voice.

"You're father wants to speak to you"

and so he did,
in mimics and whispers about his dying
sister's husband who had once
(for fifteen years)
only been a lover that no-one
in the family had liked.

it's a waiting game,
with one hand on the door-knob and
one ear by the phone
waiting for the ringing sound to
expire from the plastic hunk sitting on the
ledge.
The bags are packed and we're
waiting to head out the
door to the car to the highway
where we'll speed
and get
lost
in our grief trying to help her-
her and her Victorian dolls and fanciful
childish whims-

That's all for today.
I think I'm thankful I
filled the gas tank.
at least we won't run of
petrol.

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