Dime Day Doubts
When the history of world is written in blank verse,
as all true history is inscribed in iambic pentameter,
the main roll will go the ghosts of telemarketers,
telling your to buy the telegraphed past you’ve strive
to forgot, and who show up when you make love
to your wife or when you are playing pick up basketball,
or even at dinner. They will have to take three nos
before they leave, any less and their supervisors write
them up for lack of efforts. They will burnish all their
techniques of the trade, tone deaf fears of step-fathers'
murdering fathers, of dark Dane days of indecision
and keeping you in their world. They will do anything
to keep you in your past. "Leave me alone," you shout
and they still appear, and appear and appear. You son
will be on stage as a pilgrim, black hat doubling
his size, and you will be wanting to hang up
on the persistent past pestering you with problems
of the seven year old you were. Then, on follow up calls,
pointing you guilty for not paying attention to you child’s
part in second grade play of Thanksgiving.
Why, you think, do we lack a National Registry of No
Calls for the ghosts of Telemarketers.