She called to say we needed milk,
and ignoring that no one
older than two needs milk, I thought
how a phone call is so ephemeral, dissolving
in real time, washing its way
through ear canals, a gondola
disappearing in noisy recesses
lost to time or other currents.
A text lives forever, I reminded myself,
a record existing
out of context for eternity
or until the next Great War destroys life
by 1s and 0s while our forgotten tech
outlives us, a wasteland of data
and curated content sure to baffle
future alien visitors.
Walking through the automatic door
I’ve forgotten why I came here.
No text message.
Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019
Based on a true story