The prompt became the title of the poem. I usually avoid doing that, but it just seemed to work best in this case.
Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.
Please call…
Her voice echoes down the line, no further
than London but it might as well be
England: he will not answer when he sees her
number in the caller ID, will not pick up
the phone to dial his childhood
home. She waits and hopes, withering
each time the phone rings and he
is not on the other end.
The Daily Compost 