poem

the sound I’ve chosen in order to be alerted

to incoming calls above countless others available to me,

is that of a doorbell chime.

it’s the standard chime of the ages,

the chime recognized 'round the world,

and in situation comedy reruns,–– like

"The Donna Reed Show" when the whole family would

look to one another in bewilderment whenever the doorbell rang.

it's that ding-dong chime, with “ding” tolling in E,

and “dong” descending by a fifth in time to C,

with both repeating until I decide to respond.

it’s like opening the front door to happiness or despair,

to who knows who, or who knows what.

today is February 15th, the date of my birth,

accompanied by so many well wishers; artists, poets,

and retirees of all stations, the busily active, the vagabonds,

the brilliant and dim-witted, the lonely hearts, and tedious

hearts-full-of-joy crowd,–– and all,

(with the exception of the dead, who've appointed me

to represent their interests in whichever ways I see fit to do so.)

meanwhile, "The Office of Doctor Pedrotty" calls in greeting

with a “ding-dong” approach set to amphitheater mode,

wishing me a “Very Happy Birthday”––

which seems not to be recorded from the heart at all.

the year is 2022.