Voicemail

There’s a bump in the plaster of your wall
At the bottom of the stairs

I used to joke it was a body
Fused to the house

You told me you would die alone in these walls

The neighbors would complain about a new smell
They would find you sitting on your couch
Rotted for months
Waiting for me

Unless I called more often

They would look at the weeds grown to the windows
The mailbox stuffed with junk
Old beer cans in the sink
Two empty bedrooms

I wonder if they could expect to find anything but a body
Bloated and pearly-eyed
In such a place

But still
I should call more often

I am in new walls
But they are not far enough
They are not thick enough

I lock the door when I sleep
So I won’t wander
So I won’t wake up
Inside your walls