Below is the poem entitled How Nice Of You To Call which was written by poet
Butler. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
Read Poems by
A manic man sits, evenly, confined, conscious, in his four cornered room. His cell phone
rings and violently vibrates! The terrible tone slashed and sliced the serene silence he had
been anticipating all afternoon. It was her! The one he was trying to ignore. He could feel
her presence, penetrating, trying to get through phone. “Why is she calling—why now?” He
pondered and mused. He began to curse the moment and what it had become. He felt his
body burst in to two and a ritualistic battle ensued, between two beings deep within his core.
One beseeches him to pick up the phone, while the other tells him no.
Then it rang again, even louder than before!! It made his temperature soar, his body
burned, and his hands began to sweat. He rubbed them on his khaki pants so hard, that his
legs nearly went numb. Not before long, his whole body was wet, with sweat, saturating his
clothes so he tore them off. Soaking wet, he reluctantly reached for the phone. It rang
again, even louder than the two before!!! He created a fist and put it through a wall.
His mind, stalled. He looked at her number, emblazoned on his phone, flashing like a
billboard—advertising lies, the same ones he’s seen and bought, over and over, a hundred
thousand times. He knew if he talked, his hell would remain the same, so he tried to stay
dry, and remain somewhat sane. As he waited for his vigilant voicemail to save the day, it
rang once again, much…much louder than before!!!! He covered his ears only to feel the
drums of war, beating, pounding, profoundly in his chest. The battle was long and his insides
raged on. He started to feel himself finally losing grip, of a stronger, sturdier, “A brand new
self!” But as the milliseconds ticked on, he found himself reverting back, to a weaker, worn-
out, “I can’t stand myself.” He had agreed that no matter how much he groaned—he was not
to pick up the phone! So he shouted, and then he screamed! Then another vicious ring
brought the man cascading to his knees.
All hope—gone, the battle—lost. With the white flag waved, he gave one last huff, and one
last puff and politely said “hello…”
Submitted for Rambling's "Act I, SceneI" contest.