Interrupting simple sleep
and unsuspecting resting eyes,
a sound startles in the deep,
announcing end of someone’s life.
Alarmingly—as if a horn—
the phone rings, loud and cold.
He’s gone—a voice says—early morn,
and gone, serenity of old.
No tolling bell or mourning doves,
no heralding of angel’s flight.
One more passing, one great love—
the unceremonious call at night
that wakens us—nay, even yells;
the instrument by day we keep
turns from friend to foe, and tells
of sorrow, and of grieving deep.
The phone as enemy. Nothing’s right
when notice of an ended breath
echoes in the shrouded light,
and, ringing, brings the word of death.
