The Call. A poem by Anthony Watson
The Call
1:45 am;
a phone rings from a house somewhere in the street;
a bright insistent chirp.
I peek outside
but nothing stirs,
no clue to place it;
everything grave still.
Just rows of impenetrable black windows
soliciting taciturn suburban mysteries.
The ring continues its plea
like an frantic electric bird,
echoing down the street
bouncing off the walls.
Who is it?
She’s stopped breathing?
What do they want?
His heart has flooded?
Is this the type of call that ignores
ungodly hours and convention,
to announce in flat estuary
another disconnection?
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17:15:13
