Telephone

Telephone rings. I look at it

feeling hopeful; expectations turn to

immediate disappointment:

It’s not who I want it to be.

I leave it ringing and walk away,

out of its base camp radius.

I cannot bear its accusatory shrills;

raid bells releasing a flood of guilt

as awful as a cancer

buzzing

‘why-don’t-you-answer?’

I’m immobile, incapable of switching it off.

Sabotage, hurt locker,

bomb disposal.

Blitz, fire, explosion.

OH! That would make me terrible-

for taking a leap: choosing

to ignore you

so

I’ll pretend I’m asleep.

It stops, then: Beep, beep, beep.

A text comes through, it’s

impossible

to be rid of you!

My living room has turned into Helmand Province

that IED over there on the chair

commands ‘answer me, reply to me, acknowledge me.’

But I can’t. I’m doing nothing, going nowhere.

You could stand me against a red brick wall

at tomorrow’s dawn

and stick a white feather in my hair.

Pin a white piece of paper where my heart should be!

Call me Herbert Burden

but, like him, I’m not

who you think I am.

I’ve become a good actress,

a false friend

lying, trying to be there.

Yet,

never quite coming through

Time must only ever suit me;

never you.

I remember parties, meeting, sitting with you in the bar,

driving too fast in your

stupid silver car.

But still,

I know you’ll ring tomorrow.

So we’ll see.