Today's poem by Maxine Kumin

The Sunday Phone Call

Drab December, sleet falling.

Dogs loosely fisted in torpor. 

Horses nose-down in hay. 

It's the hour years ago

I used to call my parents 

or they'd call me.

The phone rings. Idly

empty of expectation 

I answer. It's my father's 

voice. Pop! I say, you're dead! 

Don't you remember 

that final heart attack, 

Dallas, just before 

Kennedy was shot?

Time means nothing here,

kiddo. He's jolly, expansive. 

You can wait eons for an open line.

Time gets used up but

comes back. You know.

Like Ping-Pong.

Ping-Pong! The table in 

the attic. My father, shirtsleeves 

rolled, the wet stub of 

a burnt-out cigarette

stuck to his lower lip as

he murdered each one

of my three older brothers 

and me yearning under the eaves, 

waiting for my turn. 

You sound ... just like yourself,

I say. I am myself, goddammit! 

Anyway, what's this

about an accident? 

How did you hear about it?

I read it somewhere. Broke 

your neck, et cetera. 

He says this vaguely, 

his shorthand way 

of keeping feelings at bay. 

You mean, you read my memoir?

Did you know you're in it?

Didn't read that part

No need to stir things up.

Now I'm indignant. 

But I almost died!

Didn't I tell you 

never buy land on a hill? 

It's worthless. What's 

an educated dame like you

doing messing with horses? 

Messing with horses is 

for punks. Then, a little 

softer, I see you two've 

put a lot of work into 

that hunk of real estate. 

Thanks. Thanks for even 

noticing. We love it here.

We'll never sell. 

Like hell you won't! 

You will! 

Pop, I say, tearing up, 

let's not fight for once. 

My only Poppa, when 

do I get to see you? 

A long pause. Then, 

coughing his cigarette cough,

Pupchen, he says,

I may be dead but 

I'm not clairvoyant. 

Behave yourself. 

The line clicks off.

Maxine Kumin (1925-2014)

You may watch her reading this poem at 4:11.