Telemarketers get a bad rap. <br />People call us impersonal drones. <br />We’re just trying to eke out a living, <br />armed just with a script and a phone. <br /> <br />My place is called “Cubicle City”. <br />It’s the dream of a lifetime for me: <br />Five thousand square feet of space underground <br />where the bowl-a mat once used to be. <br /> <br />Joey is one of my workers, <br />For years he’s been one of my best. <br />He knew how to deal with rejection <br />and make many more sales than the rest. <br /> <br />Just lately, his work has been suffering. <br />Last night he was crying on phone. <br />I see he’s been calling one number <br />far too often. I see that it’s his own. <br /> <br />Now I am a curious fellow <br />about all these short calls to his home. <br />I pick up my handset and dial it <br />to tell her to leave Joe alone. <br /> <br />Of course I would get a recording; <br />A woman’s voice, honeyed and sweet, <br />It seductively says “leave a message, <br />when you hear the sound of the beep.” <br /> <br />Puzzled, I asked his co-worker <br />To tell me, when Joe’s not around, <br />“What has been up with him lately? <br />I notice that Joe has seemed down.” <br /> <br />Judy tells me that Joe’s wife had left him. <br />For weeks he’s been living alone. <br />The calls have become his obsession; <br />Just to hear his wife’s voice on the phone. <br /> <br />I nod, but elect to do nothing; <br />I, too, had a wife of my own. <br />I recall when she left me- just four barren walls <br />and the sound of her voice on the phone.<br /><br />John F. McCullagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/personal-calls/
