The Telephone Voices

The phone stutters.
'Hello? Is ..... there?' A snake cackles.
Silence. Thoughts go hyper.
Finally, 'he's in hospital.
Private of course.' Tic toc.
'Hospi...tal?' A screwdriver tongue licks
fat, clueless lips.
Pause for gold.
'Why hospi...tal?' Eyes like drains
bloody as veins.

Questions marks flood the mouth piece
tumbling down the line.
'The liver sucked a problem.
It kicked balloons and venom.'
Nerves grow wings
in search of beta block traps.
'Liver?' Stirring two plus two equals,
'alcohol! Damned alcohol! Burn it!'
The operators ears turn blue.
Panic attacks jump up and down.

'How bad are the scars and blood?
Has the painting smudged?'
Clouds pass handcuffed in yawns.
'A wind almost sailed his ship
into the grave...'
Suffer in seconds, higher than hope.
'But his heart lives on
like a widow in stone.'
The telephone shines.
And dies...

@steven francis poems 1992