March 2009 — Sentry

Her husband died
Arbitrating a delicate phone conference.
The massive cardiac arrest slew him
Before his lifeless body could strike the linoleum
Or his fingers could unclench from the ebony handset.

She died five year later
Emailing a distant friend
Her keyboard disgorged gibberish
Across the screen for three hours
Before a neighbor stopped by and found her
With her right ear resting between Q and P
And her cheek depressing the spacebar.

It is said that two nights each year,
When the phone lines are vacant,
If one picks up the receiver and listens
They can both be heard whispering to each other,
Their faint voices all but lost beneath the dial tone.

~*~
R. J. Walker Miller‘s work, including both fiction and poetry, has appeared in several magazines. These recently include Fear and Trembling Horror Magazine, Ray Gun Revival, and Mindflights.

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