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David Pedlow

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Lost Client

Working, with the telephone on my desk, I aim
to answer it at once; sometimes give my name
before the double echo travels down the line
to reassure the caller the connection’s made;

ready, as the digital impulses gather into words,
to shape my face and voice to frame the sounds
of something less than soft commiseration,
loud encouragement, or jokes that break against

the empty square of wall; for, however much the fear
and worry plastically transmitted to my ear,
we only talk of money in my work –
not a subject that demands a true response.

So when they rang to say that you were dead, I found
I could not find a face that would allow
the slightest edge of grief, but spoke instead
of wills and probate; all the washed up scum of death.

Tomorrow they will bury you.  Grant that as I watch
your giant warmth encompassed in an outsized box
lowered in the ground, your family’s tears
will help me feel the loss that rattles in my brain.

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