This is a piece that grew out of a number of converging forces. It is not autobiographical, certainly, but it reflects part of collective persona, culturally, if briefly:
Western Civilization
On the patio, with wine, she told me that he'd called "Your brother called," she said, "while you were out." We'd talked about our calendars, and revenues And who should paint the halls, And I said, "What about?" "He wanted to communicate with you."
"How did he sound?" "Desperate," she replied. "He sounded as though something loved was gone, Like someone who learns an awful lie is true." "Perhaps his favorite turtle died." We laughed – it was an old, familiar tone, "He wanted to communicate with you."
Reflecting on the color for the halls, A contract at the office still in doubt, A business rumour – hoped to be untrue - I thought of him a while, and then Said "Tell me if he calls again."