I woke to the voice of the Caller
Saying “Call me. It is late.”
Like a Saturday night brawler
I responded with physical hate,
But it was too close, too soon.
(My challenges do not abate.)
I recall the sound, an ear-worm tune,
Like a long undiscovered cancer,
The dire gift of an angel or goon.
It’s too late to become a dancer.
I’m just a word-addled scrawler
With one question and no answer:
Do flying sparrows grow smaller?
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