in a cold room that smells like cigarettes from smoke breaks and strong, floral perfume

i am seated at a computer desk, endlessly calling number after number

with every minute, my face takes on a redder hue

with every minute, i sink lower in my chair debating slumber

but instead i introduce myself, am spoken over, am insulted

"not interested"-- "you have the wrong number"-- "i'm at work right now"

and in truth, i am not interested either but i see your number on my screen

if you were so busy, why'd you take the time to answer me?

and in moments when we bite our cheek,

when we anxiously bounce our legs and feet,

when we sigh, groan, yawn, and roll our eyes

we could talk about our feelings, we could bottle them up inside

we could punch a pillow, break a mirror

sip some tea, chamomile-- (with a taste like this, you better heal me)

we could scream and yell until our voices disappear

we could complain that we're sick and beg to go home early

we could play every piano key at once, B O O M

we could throw old books to wake their authors up

we could pound a lump of clay, take a breather in the bathroom

or simply rub our temples and think we've had enough

but instead, i am here, chewing my bubble gum with rage

only to take it out of my mouth when the next call answers

because i wouldn't want to annoy them