Every time, talking to you makes me cry.
Mostly silently on the other end of the phone line
or once I’ve got to the end of your driveway,
once I’ve climbed inside my car.

I don’t know your address
but I remember that grassy strip down
Dommett Street like a picture in my head
from being 10, 12, 14.

You look just like your sister, and the grandmother
I once had. Who sent me jewels that looked like the
women on TV who read the news. You look just like her and
so do I. And I forget, hear your voice, and see you both again.