Photo by Suzy Hazelwood-Pexel
by Karen Crawford
Your old red rotary shrieks in the lull of night.
A scratchy crackling, a long whistling static, a hum of white noise.
Dad?
After 17 years, not even a word.
In the morning I wake up sad to the drip, drip, drip of black coffee.
A Jameson’s whiff of you.
__________
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels, exorcising demons one word at a time.
