Three Six Five Zero

By Conor O'Callaghan Conor O'Callaghan
I called up tech and got the voicemail code.   
It’s taken me this long to find my feet.   
Since last we spoke that evening it has snowed.   

Fifty-four new messages. Most are old   
and blinking into a future months complete.   
I contacted tech to get my voicemail code   

to hear your voice, not some bozo on the road   
the week of Thanksgiving dubbing me his sweet   
and breaking up and bleating how it snowed   

the Nashville side of Chattanooga and slowed   
the beltway to a standstill. The radio said sleet.   
The kid in tech sent on my voicemail code.   

I blew a night on lightening the system’s load,   
woke to white enveloping the trees, the street   
that’s blanked out by my leaving. It had snowed.   

Lately others’ pasts will turn me cold.   
I heard out every message, pressed delete.   
I’d happily forget my voice, the mail, its code.   
We spoke at last that evening. Then it snowed.

Source: Poetry (March 2009).


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Poet Conor O'Callaghan


Subjects Relationships, Jobs & Working, Nature, Winter, Sciences, Humor & Satire

Poetic Terms Villanelle