Dead Signal

The back office of Miller’s Hardware

is where the light goes to get gray.

I’m pulling price tags off the empty bins,

closing the accounts on things that didn't sell.

I lift the heavy beige receiver on a whim,

and the sound hits me—a flat, unyielding drone.

It’s the noise of a heart that finally quit trying,

a monotone lecture on how to be truly gone.

The coiled cord is a greasy, tangled knot

snagged on the corner of a rusted metal desk.

No one is waiting on the other end

to tell me the plumbing supplies are finally in.