Phone Call Taken in My Study on a Cold Winter Day

by Martin Golan

Paul died today. The phone right here on my desk just rang
What is there to say of it?
That death, that arrogant blowhard
is throwing around his weight again?

Jessica, so quickly a widow
He was maybe 48 is my guess, she a bit younger
and Isabel and Henry, still alive, still rebelling
She in college, he just finishing high school
We carpooled for years
“Longest running carpool in history,” was the joke
You had to creep up their driveway, gravel scrunching, dirt flying
They’d see you through the big kitchen window and wave like mad
in a rush of hurried conversation, the high-tension tangle
of a family morning
It was always tricky to back out, the way the driveway curved, I think
back down onto busy Watchung Avenue
through gravel and dust

Cancer
What the hell else?

The funeral’s the day after tomorrow, last day of the year
Snow’s still on the ground around here, and it’s bitterly cold
You said you had snow, too, didn’t you?
It could warm up by then, but who knows what will happen
In the end, all the forecasts are wrong
as often as they’re right

Oh, I forgot to tell you, he was an architect
He had plans for that driveway
For the house, too, and the yard
He told me all about it one soft October afternoon
as he was raking leaves