phone calls
a day,
pertaining to the end of life
insurance.
they are chasing
me around
with shovels, ready to dig
a hole
to throw me in.
i listen to the script by
young Indian men and women,
asking for all my vital
details, before i stop
breathing.
sometimes i use my grandmother
voice,
saying that i'm Emily Wilson,
while other times
i'm Kate Hepburn, or Elanore
Roosevelt.
still living in the White House
with Franklin.
they only need my social security
number to seal the deal.
which i can't find
because my purse
is in the car.
my beneficiary
is my dog, Louie.
or my parakeet, Lucy.
at this point they usually hang up.
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