The Call

A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room, its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes. An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration sets the dark alight. It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks expose themselves to be landmines. A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud above the rattle of a tin ear. A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s softens its fall. Nothing has grasped at nothing. A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection, the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's deep within the combustible light of another day.