Phone Call

When you call it’s midnight
and your voice locks somewhere
between the phone and the clouds

hangs low in the sky ebbing on phone lines
and electrical wires.
I spend the night on the stairs
clutching the phone, supporting your words

as they fall from the earpiece,
spill out of you.
Tomorrow it’ll be a different story,

your words will sing from the roof of my house,
speak of some brand new world,    
remembering your dreams.

But tonight I listen, roll your words
around my elbow like wool, gather them up,
knit them into something new.

Abegail Morley

If you have any comments on this poem,  Abegail Morley would be pleased to hear from you.