I work for a woman who is fifty-eight,
And broken.
   Her face does not know itself
   In the bathroom mirror.

Her father calls,
And together they unravel
   Newspaper puzzles.

Her father calls, and reports each letter
With a voice strung out
   Along miles
   And states
   Of telephone wire.

"U as in You" he solves.
"M as in Me."
"S as in See You Soon."

I tell her stories.
   I read her poetry.

She made up a poem, once,
   As we sat over a
   Microwaved dinner.
She made up a poem, once,
   Her tongue a pen gone dry.

"My heart ticks.
The clock ticks.
I want to kill the clock."

   We laugh in the night.