I
asked my big question
And
after confirming the second, third and fifth digits of my secret password,
And
my mother’s maiden name, I was put on hold
To
listen to Vivaldi, bowing to the voice on the other end of the phone,
Doing
what I was told.
I
had time to observe
The
waxing crescent of a new moon phasing through its first quarter to full
brilliance
To
its last quarter, to its fading wane, broken
By a
recurring message: “Operators are busy.
Your call is important.”
Cracked
record had spoken.
I
doodled and recalled
Catechism
questions and answers learned by heart in primary school RE class,
Messages
from Jim Rockford’s answering machine,
The
names of the actors in The Dirty Dozen and The Magnificent Seven,
Chords
to God Save the Queen.
I
caught my reflection
In
the glass of a framed picture, an artist’s impression of mountains and a lake
And
my chin, resting on the highest snowy peak,
Gave
it a new dimension, a puppeteer’s raggedy doll with a massive head.
“Anytime
this week”.
A
click and then a drone,
Cut
off by something, someone, an imp, a gremlin getting kicks at my impatience,
Creased-up
call centre comedian laughing like hyenas do,
Wasting
my time when I’m perfectly capable of wasting it on my own terms.
O
Job, I envy you.
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