Storage Full

The phone warns me I am out of space,

that the memory is choked with old files.

I find the recording from a Tuesday in October

and let her speak to the empty kitchen.

She doesn’t say she loves me.

She says sourdough or maybe the rye,

her voice competing with the plastic tick

of the turn signal.

That rhythmic clicking fills the gaps,

measuring out the seconds she was idling

at a light that must have turned green

long before the message cut to static.