A terror hides in the phone,
Hanging on the kitchen wall,
Ringing over and over,
Until I pick up the receiver.
A haunting voice speaks,
"Hello, this is the hospital.."
That voice kicks my gut
Stands on my chest,
And bangs my head.
"Your son has been in a motorcycle accident"
Repeats over and over,
In my head,
While I listen.
While I try to listen.
While I try to undo
What I'm listening to.
"May we have permission
To treat him?
He's had a severe head injury.
May we have permission
To treat him?"
Terror wraps its thorny tail
Around my chest.
"We'll call back
When the doctor knows More."
There's more?
What more?
What?
Terror scratches a whisper,
"They don't know
But there is more."
"Your son has been in a motorcycle accident"
Repeats over and over,
In my head.
I want to go.
Go to our son.
Go protect our son.
Go save our son.
Make sure he's cared for.
Make sure he'll be fine.
I stare at the terror
Hanging on the kitchen wall
Waiting for it to ring.
Waiting, praying, begging
For the voice,
The doctor's voice,
To squash the terror,
And say our son is fine.
A terror hides in the phone,
Hanging on the kitchen wall.
I wait, staring at the terror
Knowing it is hiding
In the phone.
