I want you to know, receptionist,
that you should take this attack
personally. It is because of you,
and your policies, that I am not
believed, cared for, or even,
however inexpertly, cradled against myself.
I am forced to rip the telephone
from its wall because I am unable
to read any longer the names in the directory.
I have to kick chairs across the floor
to make one small point.
I want you to know
I am not impressed by your computer
which has denied me admission.
I can scream all night right here,
kick the policemen in the leg,
tear the thermostat off the wall
with my own hands and run
with it into the parking lot,
because I don’t care about consequences
or decency or my reputation as a citizen.
I can see the end of my life
in each parked car, hunched,
shivering over each wheel. I can see
the moonlight falling from the sky like knives.
I can see the sad buildings of the hospital
with the sick in their arms, grieving,
like the Virgin, the broken bodies
falling like rubble after a bombing.
No wonder I am screaming. No wonder.
-Deborah Boe
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