a bell rings
in the poetry centre of your brain
you pick up
the crescent moon
as if it were a telephone:

hello, it says
neither Buddy Rich
nor Neil Armstrong
can come to the phone right now
but if you'd like to leave a message
at the sound of the tone
they'll get back to you
as soon as the bloodshot fingers of dawn
slip from night's handshake
find and untie
the knots of moonbeam that
bind our heroes
each to each
on the basement floor

gosh, your brain says
wrong number