Permanent Reply

They found him at his desk

on a Tuesday afternoon,

The coffee still was warm,

the calendar

said noon. His chair spun once and stopped.

The building carried on.

And somewhere in a server,

something switched itself on.

"Thank you for your message,

I am currently away.

I'll return to you on Monday

— have a lovely day."

Fourteen thousand strangers

got the news the same:

He's out of office,

out of office,

out.

His mother

wrote him something

that she'd never said out loud.

It bounced back in a second,

and it bounced back very proud.

The bank sent their condolences,

the autoreply sent thanks.

The vendors kept on billing,

and the message kept its ranks.

"Thank you for your message,

I am currently away.

For anything time-sensitive, please contact Renée." Renée left in April.

Renée does not exist.

He's out of office,

out of office,

out.

Thirty years of Mondays

and he made it to the last,

And the only thing that outlived him

was a sentence in the past.

No hymn, no stone,

no children — just a promise on a loop: That he is

coming back. That he is coming back.

"Thank you for your message —" God,

he really meant it too.

"I'll return to you on Monday." And he would have,

if he could.

Fourteen thousand inboxes still holding out for him.

He's out of office,

out of office, out.

This mailbox is monitored. (Monday)