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      Poetry by Mark Dietzen 
       
 
      
  On 
        Finding My Brother Sick 
      
         
          The snow-white, plastic phone rings beside 
                      my 
          old bed. 
          The harsh, shrill noise like a knife cuts through 
                      my 
          weary ears. 
          Tired eyes are locked behind heavy eyelids. 
          Nobody ever calls at this virgin dawn 
                      something 
          is wrong. 
          Hand jolts to the receiverthe bearer of 
                      bad 
          news. 
          Eyes still closed, the hinges on the angry 
                      shutter 
          stuck. 
          Dr. Williams softly speaks in a low tone. 
          I hear my scared mother cry Oh God. 
          The shutters violently fly open. 
          Crimson red alarm clock bleeds 6:10.  
       
        
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