A lot can hide in the crackle of
a phone line after the delivery
of bad news: a sigh, a sob stifled
in a denim-clad elbow, an eye
roll, a blank stare past the face
of the one on the other end,
imagined floating in front of
the eyes, but you’re looking else
where, into the clock on the other
side of the kitchen, ticking
away like nothing’s happened at all,
like it’s just Sunday, and that
it is, to be perfectly honest,
but it’s not a day that’s in time
any more, it’s outside, and you’re
outside, too, in it, staring past
the one on the other side of the line
as they tell you, and they tell
you, and they keep telling you
even though it was only ever said
one time, there is no echo in here
but time is stuck going around,
a goldfish flushed away and gone.