When I wish I could hear you,

Through that rough and tired old voice,

And when I wish that you could still tell me stories,

About the Baseball that you threw with your brother,

That fell into a gutter as if it were a void,

And when I wish that I could hold,

The old hands that used to hold me,

And when I wish that I could see you,

The old face that I can remember

With creases on your face like small canyons,

And when I wish,

When I wish,

When I wish that you were still here.