There's going to be a phone call in the night
A well of whispers and worries opened
It'll trill once, twice, cease
For my hand will cool its plastic brow.

I'll cradle that phone call in the night
Cup it to my ear, like shell washed with memoirs,
Anxious to hear an answer as clearly
As the water to which my mind will take me.

Seconds will hold me - no one answers at once;
My chest will heave, rattling those breaths and thoughts impatiently.
I will beckon with a greeting and will despair with a sigh
And hear the trill of the night reply.

'Think. Think. Think.' like a clock tick
That word will alight me, strike me dull blows
And sorrow at...
No, in me.

A thought takes the theatre
A doubt 'dopts the limelight
And I fear not what will
But now what would happen

And like a pool in the dark it takes me.

I would hear what the speaker would say and
Wouldn't be so lucky as to remember, as to understand.
There's going to be a phone call in the night, but
I won't be there.