The Voice on the Machine

My own voice, but not mine.

Through the tinny phone speaker,

it stretched thin, a wire

pulled too tight, just before

the snap. Higher than I remember,

a reedy stranger,

pleading, or maybe just

informing.

It was me, I know. The words

were mine, the stuttered pause,

the way I drop the end

of sentences. But the sound,

it didn't fit. Like seeing

your own reflection

in a funhouse mirror,

too close, too distorted.

A small, sharp thing,

that detachment.