Your call was a letter lost in the mail,
a curiosity. I held the phone gently
as if I might lose the signal. Your voice
had that curious quality of disconnect
made possible by cell phones, like a call
from a great distance, another galaxy.
I imagined we were our younger selves,
long haired and self-assured.
We talked about your dad, motorcycles,
and New York City. I forgot to tell you
I saw your picture of the Joe Strummer mural
so listened to "Police On My Back."
I felt punk rock urgency, rebellion, youth,
like a phone call from the distant past.
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