By Thomas Page

This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.

I had to give phone number out like the loaves and fishes when I was finishing school

And entering the the brand-old world of the workforce

That had been keeping Pages and Hardins stemming back from the adams-and-eves

Learning how to walk erectus

 and to craft habilis

and to think sapiens

So that I could continue the next step in life.

 

So it went into the ether

Never to have my privacy and serenity again.

 

It sometimes it rang “Mr. Page?”

Echoing from the cave of endless interviews

Breaking like the shaky convert lost without their savior’s candle-light

Across rivers and county lines

To schools unknown then and unknown now

To me.

 

Other times it rang “We are with the:

IRS

The State of Maryland

A Collection Agency

The Ford Motor Company

A Timeshare called Unforgettable Getaways”

With the promise of reward for the caller if I stayed on the line

Lest I face the wrath of jailtime

Or at least the knowledge that I had missed out on the deal of the century.

 

On occasion, it did ring for me.

Rarely.

Language of Origin: Czech

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