Three Times

Three times. The neighbor in the lot—

how are you—and I said it before she got

the question out. The coffee machine, same.

Then my mother at eight. I came

back to myself at the table, phone

face-down, the word still in my mouth. Alone

with it, I tried to find one thing

that fit. One item I could bring

forward and call fine. The lamp.

The cup of tea. The slow, damp

end of the day. I sat a while.

The word is just a door. The style

of it: you say it, and the line

goes quiet, and you're both fine,

and everyone goes back.

I did it three times. The knack

of it. The phone face-down. The wall.

I found nothing. Nothing at all.