Dropped. A Poem

I stumbled across a dropped call today.
I picked it up and wondered what dangling
conversation hung on its edges.
Upon scanning the area along the side of Almena Road,
I saw hundreds of fallen voices lying there.
I had stepped all over them
like so many worms on a rain-soaked day.

The flattened phrases lay dead,
some hoping for a resurrection,
and some wishing they had never been said.
Idled utterances.

Loving expressions with their passion subtracted.

Crouching down, I started picking them up
like loose change from car mats.
I began to pile them in my left palm.
They became a pyramid of nouns,
verbs, and adjectives grouted
together by prepositions.

Oh, to throw these on a refrigerator
so I can order them like a shell game.
Maybe there’s a chance I can put the sentences back together.
Maybe there’s hope to text the best words
with the purest of intentions to the expecting phones.

Maybe I can stand in the gap
where the cell towers wandered
too far away from each other.
I do hate to see words lying beside the road.

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