The Phone Calls Poem by Harold R Hunt Sr

The Phone Calls
The phone call.
I sit here just waiting for the phone to ring.
In the middle of the night. I hear it ring.
It gives me a fright.
Two rings and I want to scream 'do I dare to pick it up.
I dread who might be on the other end. Or could it be them.
Three rings and I think different things.
Did they make it or are the dead.
I think this is the call that we all do dread.
The fourth ring and I reach for the phone thinking should I let it ring once more.
The phone does stop and I wonder why I froze to this call.
Then it rings once more. I grab the phone.
To hear a voice say. We made it mom and we are alright.
Love you and goodnight.
I start to think this was a call that was of joy but of those that are not.
Should I have answered it before.