Poetry by Mark Dietzen
On
Finding My Brother Sick
The snow-white, plastic phone rings beside
my
old bed.
The harsh, shrill noise like a knife cuts through
my
weary ears.
Tired eyes are locked behind heavy eyelids.
Nobody ever calls at this virgin dawn
something
is wrong.
Hand jolts to the receiverthe bearer of
bad
news.
Eyes still closed, the hinges on the angry
shutter
stuck.
Dr. Williams softly speaks in a low tone.
I hear my scared mother cry Oh God.
The shutters violently fly open.
Crimson red alarm clock bleeds 6:10.
What
are your thoughts?
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