issue 32 > poetry > sultz

The wall phone rings. I pick
up the receiver and say, Hello,
who is this?  Someone says,
This is the mortuary.  We're
sending a hearse over to
pick up the deceased.  I say,
You must have the wrong
number, I live here alone.
Someone says, Is this you?
I say, Yes, it's me.  Someone
says,  Well, then you're the
one.  Perhaps you haven't
fully expired.  By the time
we arrive, no doubt you'll
be ready.  I say, I haven't
even had breakfast yet. The
someone says, Well, then
have your breakfast.  We'll
ask the driver to drive slow,
we're used to that.






Also by Phil Sultz:

Now
Books
Ode
White Goats