Call Girl

  by Melissa Watkins Starr 

Here I sit
All broken-hearted …
                    —scrawled on a bathroom stall

Here I sit—I’m in a cubicle,
not a stall—with a phone,
a headset and a computer screen.
I’m broken-hearted.
I handle two kinds of calls,
incoming and outbound.
When people cuss me out
for things I can’t control,
I posture courtesy.
Gosh, a co-worker
right beside me just farted. 
I get razzed because
I have to read a script to strangers,
completely aware that someone 
monitors my calls & if I get creative,
a supervisor will pull me aside, 
remind me—Get three strikes 
this week, you’re out of a job.
But I never say words 
like “damn” to customers.
“How’s the weather in Vegas?” 
is enough start the drill.
Sometimes I play a game
with rhymes: I don’t listen
to sad stories on the other end,
refuse to fret because the lady
left work, waited five hours
for a repairman who didn’t show.
I think stuff like “Nevada, 
patada” and wait to read my lines.
At ten a.m., I go on break.
Here I sit—I’m in a stall 
now—fully aware 
I’m the kind of girl 
who could write the poetry
people remember—
as if anyone gives a shit.