Call 911 she said
her chest felt like a siren
blare, I’m scared, we’re there
atop the landing.

She’s climbed the stairs
she couldn’t wait for me to come
to her the lights are blinking red,
what rhymes with red?

My fingers
flop around on pads
forgetting how to spell the secret spell
which brings the help with lights

and walkie talkie squawks
and caring questions asked in monotone.
We hear them in the distance
feel resistance to anything except

whatever’s next. I push away
the thoughts that poke
around the endless wait for paramedic
help, just wait for help to come

and hope the next thing on the list
is something else we understand
a little task, another chance,
the outrage of the ambulance.

Selected byRaymond Huffman
Image credit:Danny Lines

Morgan Driscoll is a long time commercial artist, looking to express himself in some other way than selling Widgets. Poetry seemed the least commercial, and most under the radar way he could think of. So far it has been a satisfying, but obscure journey.

He has been published in The Amethyst Review, Humanist Magazine, The Penwood Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Mused, Califragile, Without Words Anthology, Constellate Magazine, Pure Slush, Caesura, and the Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, among others.