I pluck guitar strings
and my father's deep voice
vibrates. There is always family
discourse in the corner of some
low-lit bar, at the busy intersection
between life and death.

The panhandler soliciting
money wears my father's face.
When I throw in a dollar
and spare coins, insults race
my way. This is the soundtrack
of the afterlife, where the dead repeat

speeches caught in their throats
that last time they spoke
on the telephone line when
an earth-bound voice possessed
the final soul-hum of sound.