the voicemail

The Voicemail

The flashing light tells me
someone has called. I sigh,
probably another marketing call, 
“do you need your windows cleaned?”

Amid sobs, “He’s sick, ... visit him? 
... looking for God, ... help him?
We don’t know ...,
... call back?”

There it was. So clear the need
through garbled words. No name 
decipherable through the weeping, 
free-flowing tears.

The name, did it begin with “M?” 
Mary, maybe? Or
Melanie? And the phone number,
I could only get a few digits. 

How will I find them?
Can I reach them?
I play with phone exchanges and 
permutations of the last four numbers.

Lots of wrong numbers, 
and now I’m the one perceived
as the unwanted telephone marketer.
But then, oh-thank-you-God, then

there he is on the line - 
“Yes, it's Jack. Oh did my sister, Mary, call? 
You don't know me. I'm so very sick; 
I’ve not long. Could you come to the house?”

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