untitled

I pick up the keys on the way to the door
Knowing it will be so-and-so
Come for the car, to do with it such-and-such.

I pick up the documents along with the phone
The screen telling me it is whatshisname,
Calling to ask for this-code-and-that.

The memory of a heart that races with
Unknowing, at the sound of the bell
The taste of hope on the tongue, when
answering tinny summons. Fading now,
blurred by the certainty of directories,
wiped clean by all-knowing displays.

Maybe they will invent a machine,
for us who long to long.
That when answered breathes softly
Saying little, sighing a little.

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