I should be outside, enjoying the sunshine on my face.

Perhaps I’d like to have a picnic in the park

Or ride rollercoasters until dark.

Then I’d watch the sunset on the pier,

Lost in the cloud’s pink hues.

Not a worry about the call queue—

Listening to folks drone and moan about how a claim raised their rates

But don’t know how lonely it is on the other side of the phone.

They think me a machine

And less human.

Simply there to crunch numbers

While the men of status soundly slumber.

Another corporate stooge,

Working the pep out of my step,

Five days a week and only two to get my life back.

It’s much easier to detach

Than it is to let go of my inhibitions.

They tell me to relax,

Take a load off, rest my feet

Because I’m too good at running

But not at accepting defeat.

I am not one of the exceptions,

Instead a glorified receptionist.

A message for the adjuster

Played on the harmonica.

The luster of business and pleasure being star-crossed lovers—

And, oh, there’s another storm in Texas.

High flooding, they say.

And a woman with her three children

And her mother departed with only their fears.

And I had to be the one to turn them away,

For there was no more room at the inn.

We’ll gladly take your money

But leave you in the lurch to search for the pride you had to preserve to work up the courage.

And they wonder why

We’d rather die than ask for help.