that old number


Pinpricked, the hard dark, 
carved rough by my 
scalpel of light 

I take another slow drag,
canonizing slow the night. 

We conspire, like old lovers. 
In mutual lies we drowse.
Caresses fall in stark drawl
measured by their forced sighs. 

I finish my soliloquy—ever the actor—
as her words, leaden prayers, they fall:

‘This was the prevention hotline,’
     		      she replies.
‘We thank you 
for your call.’