All the Old Dogs

I am sure that no one is ever going to read anything I write here, so I am going to drag out all the old dogs for pseudo-publication.  Here is a poem I have hidden away from the light.  I would be interested in what you non-existent readers might have to say.

The Call Center

Each, in her padded cubicle,

Festooned with brightly colored scarves,

And mall jewelry,

Wears a plastic headset,

The microphone curled around her chin

Like a question mark.

Good news:

Today we are having a sale.

If I were here and 22

I don’t know what I’d do.

I wouldn’t care so much

About the time being

But would look ahead.

They must be able to hear each other,

The din of anxious scripted cheerful conversation

Making it impossible to pause

To consider any alternative to this

Livelihood. Each one has a brood

Of photographs on hand

Of children or grandchildren

Freshly dressed for school,

Their toothy smiles pressed flat

Beneath the plastic glass,

Their fleeting childhoods

Momentarily impressed

Into just this much happiness--

As when a grown-up might say

Smile for the camera

So that you will always have

This memory to remember this day.

Keith Dunlap