Intercom

I heard an Intercom buzz – when I died –

Or rather, it is what killed me –

The constant crackling, sawing, sizzling sound,

The sassy, sparking strain

Of electrical fuses on the fritz. 

The noisome, noxious noise,

The putrid, persistant popping

Buries all other waves of sound

In the room – particularly sinful

In a music classroom.

I am overtired

Of the Intercom I myself desired.

I begged the office every day

For an intercom that worked,

And also a phone, and perhaps a bell

So that I did not have to call around

And figure out when to dismiss my students.

The day we had intruder lockdown,

And I was unaware what went on,

Because my room had no intercom,

No bell, no phone, no connection

With the outside world.

It took them weeks to get it done,

And when they did, it worked quite well

For about an hour.  And then

It stopped, and I am left alone

With this ceaseless, sputtering sizzle.

I know now how it is that I will die,

This sound will pierce my brain.

I will be teaching, the bell will ring,

And I will keel over.  Perhaps I will

Stagger a little bit first,

Or perhaps I will just fall,

Not knowing what it was that hit me.

But I will collapse as life-bearing blood

Ebbs and pools around my head.

My students will know what happened,

They will see the small holes in my head

Where the sound stabbed in

And slashed my brain

To the size of squishy spaghetti.

Yes, I know how my end will be,

And now I can sing the refrain:

This is how the world ends,

Not with a bang, but a crackle.

My apologies to Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and T. S. Eliot.