Erric Emerson is a poet residing in the westerlands of Philadelphia. He is a founding member of Duende literary journal. His work has appeared in Beautiful Losers, Crabfat, Five:2:one, Neon, Gingerbread House, The Black Napkin, Mead, and By&By, among other places.
What remains is
filament in the fluorescent tubes
hung over cubicles: bland glow-
the cubicles, beige walls,
monitored calls from telephone, numbers
on monitor, the corded receiver,
outbound, outbound, dials, dialing,
smile into handset, handed in paperwork,
files into shredder-box picked up on Tuesdays.
I glance at you sometimes less than I
used to; the way the workplace is playground
for supervisor’s subordinate. How long
to talk at the copier before suspicious.
Enter the floor separately as a rule.
That trip we took to Atlantic City last fall;
Borgata stills mails me free play on weekends.
One thought on “Call Center”
my favorite line is
“How long to talk at the copier before suspicious.”
excellent poem, you captured it well.
my entire works are madness cough drops from a call center
lemon eucalyptus flavor