The word that rhymes with breath

One of these
Days the phone will ring.
I will pick up and say hello,
but the person on the other end won't.

Everything will go quiet,
and then that person will say my name
and ask if I’m sitting down.
I will impulsively say yes
while still standing,
trying to place the voice
as my feet turn to stone.

And then it will come,
one syllable, in a monotone,
followed by sorry or something,
but of course I wouldn't hear it,
because the word-
that word-
would still be throbbing
in my bones.

Suddenly,
maggots will start to crawl
out of cracks in the walls
and attach themselves
to almost everything I own.

That will be the last thing
I remember seeing.

And then,
after a few minutes
of silence,
there will be a sound
like the fluttering of wings,
and the walls,
the cracks in them,
the maggots from in between them
will all get sucked into the phone.

Half an eternity later, I
too will disappear,
and there will be nothing left
except darkness
and an engaged tone.

Poetry Matters

Old slipper wearing pessimist
Had mentioned, when he wrote of Yeats:
'Poetry makes nothing happen...'And in the greater scheme of things
He's right... No poem ever stilled
The guns, prevented war, or stopped a fight.
But poems work as epitaphs;
Become the pillows for our dreams,
Gather us up when times are rough:
Provide a comfort, soothe our needs.
Poems can conjure life or death,
Daffodils or a thrush in spring;
Poems have room for all mankind -
From beauty to the kitchen sink;
Whether in free verse or in rhyme,
The good ones make you think.

-Patrick Osada