An eloquence there is in calls unanswered:
The handset surely rivets to my head;
As if you sense my call is about cancer
And hesitate to answer since I’m dead.
The reasons you don’t answer could be many:
You’ve died, or else your vital limbs are broken;
You can’t be screening calls, for that’s unfriendly,
And curses such as mine are best unspoken.
I’ll try just ten more times and hope you answer;
Then concentrate and make you want my call:
And so, enacting our imagined banter,
I’ll dial through spring and summer into fall.
I’m hanging up, and hope you truly burn
In hell — “Hello: Monsieur, your tax return?”
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