by Tom Cherwin
She slipped into my voice-mail:
The whispered promise
Of newborn affection.
Busy doing something else
Of probable far less importance,
I heard her message
Too late,
And she slipped away:
Irretrievable,
But hey-just till noon.
Yet I wonder
If the dying echo
Of her voice
I hear still
Is telling me that one morning,
After many more missed messages,
She will roll over
To my side of the bed,
Slip into my ear,
Whisper something,
Perhaps stifle a sob,
And then slip away,
Irretrievable,
Forever.
Tom Cherwin copyright 2007
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