Hold the Phone

a poem by John Leonard

Hold the phone. Who took the Reddi-whip and paint cans?

Some of those fish were glowing and I forgot to call you about it.

Maybe there’s a jar of Grey Poupon we could bring to the potluck?

Old men on the train singing; “Oh Sammy, the hills of Ireland don’t want you no more.”

Everything survived the fire except your Keurig…a dark new dynasty.

A patch of concrete was soaked and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Sometimes you’ll just be smoking alone and pacing. We know.

At twenty-one, Devon was flushed with summer. She sold

a quart of rum to a girl who ended up killing a family of raccoons with her car.

Those “sleepless nights”, when the moon called my sister forty times…

I thought I asked you to stop sending me Vicodin samples? Alarming.

Maybe the moss stayed in the forest for a reason. Maybe is always maybe.

The coffee shop down the street—Canadian quarters and mixed reviews.

Dust (which is also part of nature) swept itself under your bed and died there.

Hold the phone, the moon is calling again. I’m all out of siblings and blue prints.

Making a trip to the market, Andrew talked himself into top-shelf powdered ginger.

The man behind the register sucked in his final breath, right before he flew to Spain.

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