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Wrong Number

The phone rings
at three a.m..
I let it go five, six, seven times,
then pick it up on eight.

It's the wrong number, again.
Someone wants Sylvia,
they want her to come to the phone.
Every night it's the same.

I tell them she's in the shower,
she's on the toilet,
she's taking a goddamn cake
out of the oven.

She's crocheting me a sweater.
I yell out her name
in the dark hollow of my apartment,
Sylvia, oh Sylvia.

But she's always busy
when they call.
I make sure of that.
She's making a good home here

for the both of us.
I want them to know that.
It seems important.
Takes the edge off.


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Wrong Number