Echoes, or Monday at 12:36 p.m.

I knew what I was doing
But I could not have said why
When I saved the message you left
On my answering machine
That fine Monday at 12:36 p.m.

You weren't fine, though
You said everything was
But you weren't
I could hardly have known
How utterly not fine you were
I couldn't see through that damned recording
I couldn't hear between the lines

I don't know how I knew
The what without the why
But I knew what it was
I felt what it was
Perhaps the fading strains
Of the underscoring of this play's denouement
Echoed backwards
Entwining with the sound of your voice
And stirring me to preserve
What then seemed from you
Such very, very
Ordinary words