cold calling

I overtook a hearse the other day. I was in a hurry. It was in my way. It hooted and started tailgating. The more dead they are the faster they want to go. Trying to make up for lost time. The girl at the bank asked me what I planned To do with all my money. They do that nowadays. I told her the Pre-Socratics were my Mills and Boon. My only phone calls were from British Gas And if they failed to call I felt lonely. They only wanted to talk to my wife. I told them not to call again. She was away. But the man, who seemed quite pleasant (Irish) Didn’t seem in a hurry, and keeps calling again. Even at six pm when I’m in the bath After a hard day doing nothing. The phone goes. I can tell it’s him. He can’t explain why he wants to call. Like some gentle detective or therapist He didn’t seem to have anyone else to phone And pretended to be a bit hesitant. It could be an offer of some kind Or a solution to the Riemann hypothesis. When young I’d ring up random numbers And make insulting remarks and hang up. These people are coming back to haunt you. I don’t suppose he’s Irish at all. A job like that, you’re practising accents. I googled frottage yesterday. And immediately got a colour zoom in Of two penises like heraldic animals. So I switched off and unplugged in case police

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