cousin paulie called from connecticut
to say he may be senile,
and to ask about
the weather down south.
cousin paulie calls twice a year
or so, asking for josie or
for aunt marge. all his phone
numbers are written on scraps
of paper, hummingbirds flitting
around his desk, crawling into
his ears-
a dark warm cave, buzzing
gently with his sawdust voice.
flat sandpaper voice
with bushy eyebrows climbing
up and down its ladder.
"it's humid in the summer,
cousin paulie, but our winters
are much milder than connecticut's."
is uncle peter there?
do you have his number?
is this mrs. krumpol?
