A cold calling we have of it,
Bent double over keyboards, hunched in packs,
Depending on the kindness of strangers to hear
Polite, meaningless words.
Though we’re nodding, nearly napping,
We continue tapping, tapping
Numbers into telephones and
Nothing, nothing more.
April is the cruellest month,
It is the tax year’s midnight and
The Finance Person cannot hear the researcher.
But ours is not to reason why, so much as to
Call up, call up and play the game,
Each day, declaring, hardened in heart anew:
‘We, who are about to dial, salute you.’
**the poetry collection, that is.