Answering Machine

when my father changes
his answering machine
for the first time in nine years
it sounds almost the same

(and then
I hear him speak my mothers’ name)

it’s a subtle revelation
the children all are gone

the clock radio in the warm kitchen corner
inches slowly towards the pantry door
stocked - in anticipation for war - with artichoke hearts (because

we are living in different measurements of time now)
but no ones keeping score for this overture of years
unless you count each
raindrop alone as a thunderstorm (but

I don’t)

nature doesn’t speak to me that clearly anymore
instead I’m forced to wait for
digital voices to change on rolling tape
at the other end of the line

as I drive through a thunderstorm of blackbirds
on my way to see a doctor
who I pray has one more silver bullet
waiting for me