A poem from John

A poem from my friend John, Poetry pole originator.


A Calling Card



arrives early

each morning,

disrupts my dreams,

requests an audience at this unseemly hour

when dogs quietly snore, thieves have called it a night, and

bread bakers switch on the bathroom light. My dutiful butler

never refuses this card, enters, presents it with a bow,

silently retreats and

leaves me

alone.



Heavy-eyed,

wrapped in my bed clothes,

I receive this caller, who recounts faces,

known and unknown; some cloaked in deception, others

contorted in fear. The caller inquires of me. Do I understand? No.

Do I feel pain? Yes. Do I suffer? No, I am awakened again.

The caller bids me good morrow, stands,

silently retreats and

leaves me

alone.



-j. milliken 10/06/07