I was in the middle of a home coming
one more day before completing a contract
that had buttressed my pathetic fallacyI was a warbler with feathered wings
when in reality I was staring at my hands again
grasping at fortune and not at the phone,
which I did pick up anyway; and hearing how the
voice was a treble, sweet in my ear,
I knew right away the caller wanted money,
and sure enough, there it was, the Symphony
firing up its string section,
how to head off the caller at the pass?
take a tip from Bridge players, I thought,
draw from my knowledge of Depression-era film,
Paul Muni sweating on the chain gang in darkened eyebrows,
Grace Kelly wearing silver dollars in "Goldiggers."
instead, hoping to avoid the ten-minute pitch,
my voice stuttering in rippled potato chips
urging outreach not to waste
her perfectly pitched breath
nor strike bow to body without first getting
a cue; I denied being in the classical musical camp
even if I had sent in a coupon, once,
such things are feckless indicators of a momentory weakness,
and not a proven measure of interest at all.
had I actually attended a concert? well, see there!
then I let her have it: come Friday,
I was filing for unemployment
when suddenly she lay down her corporate directive
to sign up another member for season tickets,
she was most sorry I had lost my job
as we spoke of how everything these days
is terrible and then hung up.
I heard a birdie outside, a wren, I think.
Opened my refrigerator door
and looked for dinner.
