The Last Pulse

Life takes
Without warning

Like flood heaving
Under the bed
Into the living room.

Suddenly, water rises up
To the waist, and you
Are a second too late to save
Journals, bed sheets, shoes,
Cassette tapes, and the old
Television set. Even the expired
Job contract is sailing in slow,
Oblivious movements

To your arms.
So much humanity lies
Dead in this room-
Turned-sea. One moment,
And life is watered down

By waves of grief.

But something survives
And you hear it calling:
There, the phone is afloat
On a tray, its voice muffled
By rain.
You rush to lift the receiver
As if it possesses
Life’s last pulse.

The voice comes
Clear, as if it weren’t a world
Away. Water is wailing

At your feet, but a brief
Exchange of words, and life

Takes you to a warm,
Familiar shore.