by Sara Polsky
The man who answers the phone in customer service
puts me on hold again. He’s the fourth one
to swear his system shows nothing wrong
with my on-the-fritz psychic connection,
this high-speed line from me to the future
that predicts morning traffic and each night’s chance of rain.
The technology improves all the time, says Rep #4,
back on the line, probably thinking I’m one of those callers
who blames a low-cost ESP hookup for failing to deliver
the big answers, the advance notice of catastrophe
its customers are hoping for. No, I say.
All I want is to fix this tiny orange light
that’s blinked nonstop since yesterday. I want to know
whether next week is the right time to get tomato plants
and sound quotes for roof repair. I want prediction as advertised:
ordinary clairvoyance and small certainties,
a gentle smoothing of the way.
Copyright © 2017 by Sara Polsky