I lost my old address book: streets, names, numbers,
yours among them, my beloved well-wrung friend.
When phoning you I did a zigzag digit dance
across the dial pad, your number retrieved
from both mental and muscle memory,
a finger poked pattern, stored as factual fiction
on the well-worn indexed pages of my brain.
In this new edition of my person populated book,
I do not need to add your name.
What offers utility in this world is futile
between this world and the next.
I can neither call or write. I wish like hell I could.