The Telemarketer Takes a Workshop
       

The villanelle serves the cycle,
the sonnet the turn. It's all sales.

Chant the bit about despair,
the icicles lingering in a forever fall,
remembered as only potential.

Sing the dog songs, the lapping
thuck of water and the clack of would-be
claws on old linoleum.

Meditate on so many orts of circumstance,
write it and repeat it and take it apart.

Then watch them as they look at you,
so much older, buried in eyeliner or sweaters,
one finger hooked to dial, drumming.

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Copyright © 2013 Gabriel Welsch All rights reserved
from The Four Horsepersons of a Disappointing Apocalypse
Steel Toe Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission