A Memory of Voice

His voice, a memory, I found him
wordless, scribbling
with a Wing Wung fountain pen
about the emergency steps.
His hands, varicose, showed the blue
footprints of the nighttime
deep vein thrombosis.
He scribbled, 'CALL'. Call his doctor,
call his brother, call the sky
and say 'Wait'. Wait. My uncle
stared at the fly on the floor.
I saw the reflections
of a sudden speech impaired man
through my buzzing eyes.
When I began calling I had
a stranger's voice; my throat
had a note of blood clotted dark.