Dead People

 

All the people I’ve ever known

who have died

keep calling me on the telephone

and then hanging up.

 

I know it’s they

who are leaving all the messages on the answering machine,

the quiet click of the receiver

falling back into its cradle

after they’ve said nothing at all.

 

Sometimes they try to disguise their voices as telemarketers,

trying to sell time shares down in Florida,

but they’re not fooling me.

“Uncle Arnie, I know that’s you!”

I scream into the mouthpiece.

They usually hang up.

 

Sometimes they’ll page me at bars

and then speak so softly

that I can’t understand a word that they say.

But I know what they want.

 

They want me to follow the light,

to go down that tunnel,

to leave the shell of my body behind,

to come join them in an eternal game of cards

where nobody keeps score.

 

But I’m not going to do it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

 

I know it’s just a matter of time

before they start knocking on my door,

trying to peak around the curtains,

trying to catch me hiding behind the sofa

pretending not to be home

with the TV still blaring.

 

Maybe I’ll send my wife

to tell them I’ve gone out for the evening.

Or maybe even better,

they won’t know the difference

and take my wife instead.