the inferno

the coven of witches
and warlocks, demons
and devils,
that run the phone
company that rhymes
with horizon
own your soul.
it is not unlike dante's
inferno.
they have you on hold
for hours,
making you wait
in purgatory for an
answer to your problem,
transferring you to
one level to the next.
did you turn it on then
off they ask.
did you sprinkle the blood
of a dead bat on the screen?
take the battery out
and wave a wreathe of garlic
over it while
whispering your password
and your mother's maiden name.
you are locked in for
life with your
slow witted phone.
the battery wilts
with every call,
the screen goes black
as any hole.
the sound is garbled,
the connections dropped.
there is no way out
of this blood inked
contract.
they have you by
the arms and legs,
pulling you deeper
and deeper into
the fiery pit
of cell phone hell.
the bill keeps coming
as the box sits
silent, holding its
forked tongue. is there
anything else we can do
for you, they ask
before ending your call
with a loud piercing cackle
then the hum of a dial tone.