Late Call (Poetry)

They were in bed, the TV droning low
engaged in commerce, moving soft and slow
when the sudden interruption loud and shrill
broke their rhythm, kept on ringing ’til
she snatched up the receiver, half in shock
and squinting round to see the bedside clock

saw how late it was (approaching one)
to phone unless, by fluke, it might be some
wrong number or a real emergency ...
she braced herself to face what it might be.
A warm familiar voice came down the line
her reaction too unsettled to define.

She wallowed in confusion for a while
amazed he’d had the nerve to even dial
her number when he’d left it for so long
yet now he phoned like there was nothing wrong
and they could just pick up where they’d left off ...
She let him prattle on, then gave a cough.

He faltered, drew abruptly to a stop
and, across the miles, she heard the penny drop.
Silence gathered all the things unsaid
and wrote them on the wall above her head.
“Oh God! You’re not alone!” He gave a sigh.
She smiled and cut him off without reply.