Six Weeks

Sunday afternoons I used to call.

Fifteen minutes, same exchange—

how's work, the weather, nothing at all

too hard. We'd found a range

we could both manage. Fine.

Then fine. I don't know when

the Sundays stopped. No line

I crossed, no fight. And then

today I held the phone and sat

with it a while, then set it down

face-first on the cushion. That

was that. The afternoon's slow brown

light through the blinds. I'll call

next week. I know that's true

the way I know the hall

light needs a bulb. The view

from the couch: the screen gone dark.

The afternoon going thin.

My father's name. The mark

where the habit used to begin.