Frank’s looking through his wardrobe

for something to wear, he pulls out the jacket
worn once for Nan’s funeral.
He tries it on and turns
in front of the mirror, shoving his hands
into the pockets. He finds
a piece of paper, screws it up
tosses it into the bin –
he pauses, bends, takes it out again
smoothes the crumpled edges,
there’s something written on it:
a telephone number.
He sits and dials.
It rings for a long time,
Frank’s about to cut off
when a voice replies:
Hello, Bob Armstrong.

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