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
