Dropped Call by Jonathan Butcher

That voice hacks away at my ear; I almost
feel its teeth brush against my eardrum.
I slowly begin to awaken four hours after
bed, my eyes still heavy under the onslaught.

That window offers the same view that I attempt
in vein to brighten with the dullest conversation
with myself, like a diplomat without an audience.
I slowly soak up my own applause without apology.

I spot the solitary crane that slowly picks and pulls
at what is left of the abandoned building across from me,
like fingers with a stubborn scab, that still continues to
bleed with each idle touch yet is never removed.

My eyes divert back to that screen which slowly
starts to flicker and nonchalantly controls what little
light this room offers. It keeps me within that trance,
till that voice once again slowly brings me round.

Jonathan Butcher
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England and has been writing poetry for around ten years. He has had work appear in various print and online publications, most recently at Odd Ball Magazine, Mad Swirl, Dead Snakes, Your One Phone Call and The Transnational. His second chapbook ‘Broken Slates’ has been published by Flutter Press.

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