Your Call (Poem)

There
is
a
telephone
helpline
on the
Golden Gate
bridge. Dial
the number or
succumb to the
itch. What is there
to say except
“life’s a bitch”
& the sea’s a
cruel mistress:
I’m in the middle
of it. Hang up the
receiver, take hold
of the wire, wrap it
round your neck;
tease the funeral pyre
– or tie it round your
ankles and free-fall
to the waves; let
the
spittle
flick your hair
and by tension
be saved.

Theodore J. Inscoe