The Phone Call
The phone call that dug me up, from sleep,
This ice-glazed midweek morning,
Has not yet clarified itself, as to its source,
Though, all afternoon, well toward fugitive 12 a.m.,
I've stayed alert, surveillant, kept questioning,
Investigating who might have been trying to contact me,
At such a God-clockless hour.
Even now, as slumber seeps, stealthily, into my psyche,
Like Third Reich fear drawing near, burying the air,
I wonder who might have rung my number
And pray that he/she/they/it doesn't do so again,
Since I depend on anonymity, to let me go incognito,
Whenever I'm fleeing, eluding, escasping,
Hiding from the ice-glazed agents of doom.