The Last One, Or, Still Just

The phone rang, her voice,

bright, like a bell

I used to chase, or try to.

"Did you remember," she started,

"your umbrella? It looks

like rain, down there."

Down where. As if

I'm still

in the mud puddle,

wearing that ridiculous,

tiny, red rubber boot

with the buckle that always

dug in.

It wasn't even raining.

I’m forty, you know.

I pay taxes,

I fold my own socks.

But the way she says it,

the way she always

just knows

what I might forget.

Like I'm still the one

who needs a hand

held.

Or, you know,

a lunch.

Just in case.