you always called last
on my birthday.

the phone rang late tonight—
I almost thought it was you.

then I remembered—
there would be no more calls.

I found the last voicemail you left
and listened to it three times,

something about “House of the Rising Sun”
and “why don’t he write?”

I could almost smell the whiskey
through the phone,

wishing like hell
I could call you back.

I wrote this poem on the date in the title—my first birthday after losing my dad.