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And he was gone
Christian Ward
The answering machine clucks
to the rhythm of her tapping foot,
its red light shining into the photo
album of her mind, snatching a scene:
Her standing in front of a cottage,
hanging out a line of washing. A son
inside, playing with his childhood.
The tick of a clock drags her back.
A sheriff explains the situation in words
bland like snow. Tapping her watch
on the table doesn’t make him reappear.
Tapping her wedding ring makes a dog
come running. But it lost his scent
a long time ago and wanders around,
hungry for meat.