This is just a first draft--let me know how I can improve it.
I’m worried, but I’m stuck inside all night
behind the counter serving those who can
take off as soon as they receive a call
from sobbing mothers asking for them there.
And yet the phone that rings is mine, it hounds
me, shaking with a nagging urgency
it rings, it’s mimicking the shaking of
her shoulders when I don’t respond. My phone
is silent now although I still can feel
the ringing on my skin, the cold vibration.
But later when I’m driving to her house
through empty streets in Omaha, the phone
is farthest from my mind. I only drive.
The streetlight streaming in illuminates
the faces of my friends; of those who know
the tragedy and feel the need to see
it for themselves. They knew him too, and we
cannot console each other, only share
this silence. If he is dead when we
arrive we will return the way we came.