though I was not.

When she was dying, my phone stayed

          in its holder. In all fairness, I didn’t think

she was going to die. One always imagines one

                     more day. I do not feel

poetic about her, so writing about my telephone

          seems all I can muster.           Though I will say

out of my father that day emerged

                     both seagulls and frogs—

the birds flew up to follow

          in her wake,

and the frogs made sure he stayed

                     close to the ground.            I happen to know,

though, that he stepped on more than

                     got away.     The ones who fled

found a hiding place under the bed, where they stayed

          and stared at the gavels of his feet.



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