by Ronald Moran
On Friday afternoons, when my phone
its murky screen often says, Out of Area,
lists numbers trailing unfamiliar, exotic
If answered, it may deliver a robo-message,
live callers mangling my simple surname,
transparent as the skin over a girl's wrist,
of years ago that recurs like a song-worm,
the face of a girl I saw once when I was 14
a summer playhouse. Now as a widower,
Is she alive, and has she had a good life?
I answer it.