Monster Accosted by Telemarketers
They assail me from all sides,
like the biplanes did to poor Kong.
They try to sneak in through my mailbox
and my internet cable, but mostly
through the phone lines. They know
where I live, and they know my number.
They know when I’m just getting out
of the shower, or sitting down to dinner,
because that’s when they always call.
They know I have a timeshare,
that I want to reduce my mortgage rate,
that I bought theater tickets last year.
They try to lure me out with cheap cruises,
zero percent interest, free trial offers.
They want me to take a survey,
donate to a police organization,
my alma mater, environmental groups.
It’s scary what they know. Yeah, it scares me,
imagine that. Fortunately, my growl
always drives them away, but it’s almost
too much to take. I wish I could just
swat at them or absorb their assaults
like Godzilla does with missiles.
But I have to tell you, I miss the days
of the door-to-door salesmen.
They were delicious.
Dream
In your dream, a blond-haired boy
who looks like your grandson
hands you a pair of roller blades.
Try ‘em, he says. You let go of your walker,
sit on the curb and strap them on.
In later life you’d said, I used to ice-skate.
Those look like fun.
If only I were young enough to try.
And in your dream, you do.
One hand behind your back,
the other oaring the air,
you rumble and glide over pavement,
the wind blowing back your wispy gray hair.
And you skate for all your life was worth –
past your grandsons, your dear departed wife,
past your daughter’s wedding,
past your metal shop smelling of hot steel and oil,
past a table of maps from the war,
past your saxophone on the chair amongst your bandmates,
who are white-tuxedoed and ready to play,
past your father’s milk cart, your mother’s infirmity,
past your baseball-uniformed brother,
who left too young and too soon.
In your very last dream,
you reunite with your buddies,
all bundled and red-cheeked, aged ten to twelve,
at the frozen pond.
Your skates have turned to silver,
and your loved ones line the banks,
marveling at your calligraphy on ice.
