The Telephone Voices

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

Question marks flood the mnouthpiece
tumbling down the line.
'The liver hit a fire wall.
It sucked balloons and venom.'
Nerves grow endless,
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 hus heart lives on
like a widow in stone.'
The telephone shines.
And dies...

@Steven Francis poems 1994