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He wants the phone to ring.
He wants it to be his mother.

His mother is dead.
She died three years ago. Her heart.

He half-listens to the tedious
clickety-click of the wheels.

He has brought a book to read,
a mystery, which he keeps in his lap.

He stares out the window.
It isn’t raining, but later it might.


by Howie Good

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