poem27 Mar 2017 08:00 am
He heard it again this time
louder than before. Sleep
was a luxury he did not have.
It has been almost two weeks
since he last had a nights sleep.
The phone would ring at odd hours,
but he would never answer it. He knew
who was calling. It was always the same.
It would ring three times then silence.
He never left the apartment for fear
he would not hear the phone. The ringing
is what he waited for.
He knew he could never answer it not on the
first, second or third ring. He also knew why.
He would one day admit his guilt, but till then
the phone would ring. The spirit would always
leave on the third ring.
The self-made prison where time was
consumed by a phone that only he heard.
3 Steps Telephone Paintings, 2014, shared with creative commons license
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