Her talk floats, changes course
like blown soap bubbles. Then—
gone. Someone else’s
laughter comes near, draws hers.
She drifts
toward whoever is taking
her pulse, lifting her spoon,
doesn’t hear me
calling
into the receiver.
I stand in my kitchen, phone to ear,
listening
to the room she’s in
Jennifer Freed writes mostly poems. Her mother survived a cerebral hemorrhage two years ago. Learn more at jfreed.weebly.com.
I was lying in bed when the phone rang. Sleepily, I picked up the receiver to answer it, and realized something was wrong.
I put the tube of hand cream down on my bedside table, put my glasses on, and picked up the real phone, instead.
It was nothing important.
Anne Lever is recently retired and is a mature student at ChristChurch University in Canterbury.
The truck moved at a high speed, the driver singing along to the music on his iPod.
His phone vibrated in the back seat, receiving a call from his wife. The road ahead was cracked.
It was too late before the driver realized danger. He never reached home for dinner.
Mr. Literato, unlike his name, is not Spanish. He reigns from somewhere unknown in Asia and maintains a blog: alwaysrandomposts.blogspot.com.