before being asked to leave, she answered
                    the phone breathlessly, always breathlessly,

                    and tried to direct calls, tried to take messages.
               She couldn’t remember which room any given

               staff member worked in, or what hours any
               given staff member worked. She relied on
               the intercom system and would page during

               the children’s naptime. She left parents
               on hold far too long and unknowingly

               hung up on others. She left messages on your
               desk and the caller’s name would be spelled
               wrong, or the phone number would be missing

               a digit, or the piece of paper would have Coke
               stains on it. She spoke of her dog, her dog

               that slept in bed with her, that guarded her
               from the maintenance man. She died
               in her apartment and you know her dog

               nudged her, howled at the door and she would
               have dutifully responded, if only she could.