Brief Respite

How distorted the drums were,
that resounding thrum of heat,
in my fevered dream,
of the porch upon that beach.

A call upon that phone
that should not have survived,
answered slow as stone,
centuries passed me by,
as I pressed that button.

Answer.

It was you.

We talked for hours.

Then I woke up,
and I was back to the beating drums,
invading even my waking head.

ratta-tatt-tatt, ratta-tatt-tatt....