The Phone Call
/em>Over breakfast, pouring coffee, buttering toast,
the phone rings, I answer. It is her sister,
she's weeping --- father dead.
Looking across the table at her,
I recall last night, restless words,
words spoken as she slept.
This morning those dreams seem to have been
clouds taking shape before a storm,
a Greek chorus reciting elemental spells,
cast against the coming of the day./em>
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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