The call centre chap calls
day in and out finding
that soonest excuse
to hold on the day
and sail some greetings

He would ask about my day
and if I am feeling okay
the most strange fleeting
of flatter and flirtatious hills
It’s an absurd daunted mill

His voice I would hear in the morn
and just before the dusk settles
Ohh how he said he loves my voice
and my existence is his concern
with withheld numbers and utters

Yet, I never ever ask anything
I show no concern or interest
that sort of art is a moment away
like a moody absent rose I appear
Not guessing, dreaming or wanting

As dreams of another slips away
I remain the centre of my games
As preys approach erected fences
The blinded windows become unspoken
Soon he will give way and walk away