Thirteen days

Phone calls that bear bad news,
Sound like all other phone calls.
They ring loud and clear,
And with a predictable, synthetic, alacrity.
They’re answered with almost,
The same urgency, the same haste.

Some recipients stay harried,
Some run through the motions.
The milk has to cool down,
To be kept inside the fridge.
The clothes have to be put to dry.
And dog has to be walked.

Some are watchful,
Staying the course for those,
Whose head has run amok with
Misplaced banality and pending chores.
Now is not the time, they say.
Now is not the time.

Some deep-dive into memory,
When memory was in actualities,
And not existing between chimeras.
Sentiment drives the words they speak,
On hours spent watching soap operas
While coveting queens and covers.

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