Midnight Telephone by Belinda Roddie He called me one night while I was sitting on the couch, Emptying a bottle of Amaretto and watching Rod Serling’s face As he spoke of a macabre demise coming my way. He called me then, and the taste he gave was not as sweet As what any glass of Amaretto would leave in my mouth. He spoke of changing routine while I sat With the screen casting my silhouette on the wall, And as I listened, my own shadow seemed to nag me, Frolicking at my silence, laughing at my calm. He told me he had to keep moving while I, on this couch, Could not, and hearing this, I could not help but Laugh as well, laugh with my shadow, My dancing doppelganger on the wall. He asked, “Have you been drinking tonight?” “No,” I lied, fearing that my wobbly pronunciations Would give me away, “No, but have you Been living tonight?” And I hung up. He never called me back, and I, comfortable, Undeterred from my nest, let Serling’s voice Carry me away as I watched the cigarette Bu