The Extension of the Dead

Getting drunk, a friend called women

He had slept with, men he hated,

And then 911, repeating

"Emergency" like a schoolboy.

"Try 999," I suggested,

Giving him the hot-line number

That Malaysians, once, imagined

Was the extension of the dead,

Their calls, instead, directed to

The homes for police and firemen

And medical help, dispatchers

Picking up for thousands who thought,

Immediately, they had linked

With the calm voices of the dead.

Cautions? Disclaimers? Those callers,

Regardless, asked about heaven's

Lifestyle, what it meant to be dead.

They chanted incantations to

Ward off whatever might travel

Through phone lines from the afterlife.

"What's the story with you," my friend

Kept on repeating, receiving

Sympathy, curses, threats, a fine.

And the Malaysians? They, at last,

Asked for help with the lottery—

Because surely the selfless dead

Knew the winning numbers, the sort

Of thing you heard in paradise.