my phone never rings at the bottom of this sinkhole.

I think they know I have nothing to share,

here where my only view is the circle of sky I can’t reach,

an escape hatch to heaven with no stairway,

a ladder with no rungs.  it’s warmer closer

to hell, but it’s no destination wedding.

I think I’ll gnaw off my own leg

just for something to talk about.

I only get calls for tragedies and

scams and appointments. if this poem is 

bloody enough for you, will you give me a call?

otherwise I could try going out for drinks with

a robot telemarketer or an artificial therapist. 

at least it knows what it is like to be outside looking in.