Member Poem

Fifth, pant for a sec.
Second, lob it over
            through the window
            and into the garden.
            You cannot think
            of anything else to do.
Fourth, slide the tumblers
            to the locked safety.
Seventh, push the numbers
            of death.
First, pull the knife
            from your kitchen drawer.
Sixth, grab the plastic
            telephone off
            its perch on the
            pastel wallpaper.
Ninth, tell your hope
            of rescue just
            how unsafe you feel.
Third, sprint and lock
            the door painted
            red last summer.
Eighth, pant again
            as the ringing
            crunches through
            the crap speaker.