when my father changes
his answering machine
for the first time in nine years
it sounds almost the same

(and then
I hear him speak my mothers' name)

it's a subtle revelation
the children all are gone

but the clock radio in the warm kitchen corner
still inches slowly towards the pantry door
stocked - in anticipation for war - with artichoke hearts (because

we are living in different measurements of time now)

but no ones keeping score
for this overture of years
unless you count each tin can frequency
as a thunderstorm alone (but

I don't)

nature doesn't speak to me that clearly anymore
instead I'm forced to wait
for digital voices on rolling tape
to change at the end of the line

as I drive through a thunderstorm of blackbirds
on my way to see a doctor
who I pray has one more silver bullet
waiting for me

Sam Dillon is a writer and musician who resides in Connecticut. He works at a psychiatric hospital, and his band Cup of Sun tours the east coast area. He has been published in Poems on the Road to Peace, and the Chronogram Magazine. He believes time is non-linear and enjoys writing about himself in the third person.