(based on suggestions from @pinknantucket, @jellyjellyfish, and my Mum)
Terrible at phones and the act of pressing ‘call’.
Hold my phone like a gun, each abstract
number a bullet of resignation. Fingers hover
Make appointments without the knack of demand.
Armor welded out of of lolpics, a space helmet
from that squirrel I need his laser pew pew pew
Hate working this side of medical front desks.
Default deafness of receptionists
False tact sees patients as timeslots.
Here’s a stick bag beat it against your clear head.
If the referral vanishes, get your ghost strokes on
Your fingers don’t even drum past forty wpm.
I trained in that software, you can double entry.
Right click, divide cell, confirm. I was you once.
Add me to the waiting room or I’ll jump the bench.
Today's poem is based on suggestions from two peeps and my Mum:
- @pinknantucket: “Someone wrote to me today of Laser Space Squirrels and I was quite taken by the idea...whaddya reckon?”
- @jellyjellyfish: “drums”
- Mum: “deafness, resignation and tact”
Regarding Laser Space Squirrels, I refer you to: http://www.omglasergunspewpewpew.com