I keep hearing this muffled voice. Can’t sleep
for a week. Coming through thin bedroom walls,
this thing like a kidnapper’s phone threat, creep
snarling haunting notes—digital owl’s call
hooted through a spy’s keychain voice changer:
You…you in your sin and shame…must face your
endgame…Some nights it sounds like a stranger,
cantor of bitter loss. Some nights I’m sure
it’s her, sneaking to disguise her bitch howl.
Last night I lost it. Nearly shot my fist
through my neighbor’s wall. Slipped out in a cowl,
prowling streets, feeling demons slash my wrists
with talons. Gallons of booze I’ve swallowed
can’t deaden this sense I’m being followed.
Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2009
