FROM A ROADSIDE MOTEL by Franz Wright

    

I dial, it rings, someone picks up
and informs me I’ve reached the wrong party. No problem.

Three identically failed attempts later, however,
and my new friend is losing his patience with me.

This is quite understandable; nevertheless,
we can straighten it all out,

I am certain of it. Apparently
not, for

with slow, precise, calm, and convincingly murderous
enunciation, I am informed

that no one by your name has ever lived
at his number, familiar to me as my own.

I sit on the edge of the bed
holding a phone to my head.

__________
Franz Wright