One of the tasks I've set before me is to clean out my files so as to get ready for the purging of the hard drive for the bringing it on-ness of Windows XP. I found this update of a poem I published in the H.S. Lit Mag my junior year. Then it was called "The Answering Machine." Some of the words are changed, as has the "you."
Amid all the junk on my desk:
Clippings from magazines,
Two empty glasses
Eight CD cases, three pens
Too many keys on a blue key ring
Scissors and a paperback copy of 1984;
I found your letter.
It told of your happiness
Of being back home
Of the joys of springtime
In the country
But then I read between the lines—
I was sorry I did
For here I saw the piles on your desk too.
Your mom’s rosary beads
As the phone rings, I prepare my thoughts:
I read your letter,
That’s why I called.
I called to say I care,
I need you, I miss your
“…please leave your name,
number and a short message at the
“Kay, this is Sue…call me back.”
My speech, diminished to seven words.
Which is basically how I feel about answering machines/voice mail. I rarely reveal myself on them, I prefer to talk to the person. Mostly, even if my world has caved in, I don't want my friend's husbands to know, or for my friends to worry, so I cheerily say, "Hope all yins are healthy, we'll talk soon."
3 weeks ago